r 


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1.0 


I^|2j8     |25 

■  50     ■^"       Hi^l 


I.I 

m 

1.25 

1  U.  1 1.6 

Hiotographic 

Sdences 

Corporation 


^ 

<^.^ 


•\ 


«' J 


CIHM/ICMH 

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ire 

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er  une 
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ies 


re 


Y  errata 
id  to 

nt 

ie  peiure, 

9on  d 


32X 


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1 

2 

3 

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la  dernlAre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 

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et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  nAcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
lllustrent  la  m^thode. 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

.:# 


/ 


.<<f  c~  < 


" 


^1    ^,. 


THE  STORY  OF  AN  ENTHUSIAST. 


'">*«..■; 


-1 


[III  ni|iiit'li»ilftii»f»ii.-'ffi<S»»......   ... 


;.  X: 


<^V  A'^ 


CoFYMOirr,  18S7, 
By  TicxNOR  AND  Company. 


All  R^ktt  Ruirvtd. 


BLECTROTVPKD  BY 

C.  J.  Pbtirs  &  Son,  Boston. 
Presswork  by  J.  J.  Arakelyan,  Boston. 


Boston 


"  I  WISH  either  my  ffcther  or  my  mother —  or  Indeed  both  of 
them,  as  they  were  in  duty  both  equally  bound  to  it  — hod 
minded  what  they  were  about  when  they  begot  me;  had  they 
duly  considered  how  much  depended  on  what  they  were  then 
doing ;  —  tliat  not  only  the  production  of  a  rational  being  was 
concerned  in  it,  but  that  possibly  the  happy  formation  and  tem- 
perature of  his  body,  perhaps  his  genius  and  the  very  cast  of 
his  mind  J  and  for  aught  they  know  to  the  contrary,  even  the 
fortunes  of  his  whole  house  might  take  their  turn  from  the  hu- 
mors and  dispositions  which  were  then  uppermost.  Had  they 
duly  weighed  and  considered  all  this,  and  proceeded  accordingly ; 
-I  am  verily  persuaded  I  should  have  made  quite  a  difflbrent 
figure  in  the  world  from  that  in  which  the  reader  ia  likely  to 
sec  me."  —  Steknb. 


^^^'*^°^"'^f'ff¥-ff*rirf[r1WfiW^^ 


teS*"'"* 


r~ 


D 


P( 


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Si 


'J-  M 


■■Wfiiii'iiiwiiixi . 


CONTENTS. 


I 
I 


PART  I. 

PAOH 

Th£  Head  with  tub  Black  Bruketta 8 

PART  n. 

DORETHEA 8fl 

PART  m. 
Polony 110 

PART  r/. 
La  Samta 169 

PART  V. 
The  Stbanoe  Story  ok  a  Picture 243 

PART  VI. 
Xatiuka .    .    Sfil 

PART  vn. 

Sanctuart 417 


- 


ifliiiiiiffi 


PART  I. 

THE  HEAD  WITH  THE  BLACK 
BERRETTA. 


p**' 


__J 


THE  STORY  OF  AN  ENTHUSIAST. 


PART  I. 

THE   HEAD   WITH   THE   BLACK   BERBETTit 
I. 

It  was  a  picture  that  influenced  my  whole  life:  that 
made  me  a  lover  of  art,  and  an  artist  — a  portrait,  by 
Raphael,  of  a  beautiful  boyish  head  in  a  black  berrettq. 
I  was  but  a  baby  when  I  first  began  to  love  it  — cer- 
tainly not  more  than  three  years  had  passed  over  my 
little  flaxen  head  when  I  remember  climbing  into  a  chair 
that  I  might  be  nearer  that  beautiful  earnest  face,  full 
of  love  and  mystery. 

The  picture,  a  portrait  of  the  great  artist,  painted  by 
himself,  and  similar  in  some  respects  to  the  one  now  in 
the  Louvre  collection,  hung  in  my  father's  study,  in  a 
gloomy  old  hotel.  Rue  de  Grenelle,  Saint  Germain, 
where  most  of  the  years  of  my  childhood  were  passed. 

Associated  with  that  picture  is  the  memory  of  my 
mother,  a  dark  piquant  beauty  with  expressive  eyes, 
smiling  mouth,  and  lustrous  black  hair  falling  low  over 
a  broad  white  forehead.  That  brilliant,  mobile  face 
stands  out  from  the  background  of  memory  clear  and 
glowing,  in  strong  contrast  to  the  sombre  serenity  of 

the  pictured  head. 

8  _ 


|UI)IJJU|  jllUi»l^wj«*W!W|Wy 


THE  STORY   OF  AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


I  must  have  been  about  eight  years  old  when  one 
day  ray  bonne  said,  "Little  master  has  a  baby  sisusr; 
come  and  look  at  her." 

I  followed  the  nurse  into  my  mother's  room,  where  a 
feeble  pink  object  lay  in  a  cradle  lined  with  silk  and 
lace.  Its  eyes  were  closed,  and  it  moaned  constantly.  I 
did  not  care  at  all  for  it,  but  turned  eagerly  to  my  mother, 
who  lay  also  with  closed  eyes  and  white  weary  face. 

"No,  no,"  said  the  nurse;  "she  is  very  ill.  You 
must  not  disturb  her.     To-morrow  you  may  kiss  her." 

I  would  not  go.  Hanging  back,  I  cried,  "Mama, 
mama."  The  bonne  forced  me  away  impatiently,  shut- 
ting my  fingers  in  the  door  as  she  closed  it.  The  pain 
made  me  furious,  and  I  struck  at  her  with  my  clenched 
hand  as  I  darted  back  into  the  chamber,  crying  again, 
"Mama,  mama." 

I  shall  never  forget  the  stern  face  of  my  nurse  as  she 
said,  severely,  "  Hush,  you  will  kill  your  mother." 

In  an  instant  I  was  subdued,  and  allowed  her  to  lead 
me  quietly  from  the  room.  As  I  went  I  looked  back ; 
my  mother's  eyes  were  open  and  fixed  upon  me  with  a 
look  of  undying  love. 

A  few  days  after,  I  was  dressed  in  black  and  led  into 
a  darkened  room  to  take  a  last  look  at  the  face  I  dearly 
loved ;  a  little  flaxen  head  nestled  on  her  bosom,  and  her 
pale  hands  "were  folded  over  the  tiny  form  of  my  baby 
sister.  I  turned  away,  I  would  not  look.  That  rigid 
form  with  closed  eyes  and  closed  lips  was  not  my  bright, 
beautiful  young  mother's.  She  had  always  smiled  and 
kissed  me,  but  this  pallid  face  had  no  love  for  me ;  so  I 
slipped  away  and  went  to  the  picture  in  the  library, 
and,  standing  on  a  chair,  I  held  up  my  black  sash  and 
silently  pointed  to  it ;  then  leaning  my  head  against  the 


i 


3T. 

•Id  when  one 
,  baby  sisuer; 

•oom,  where  a 
vith  silk  and 
jonstantly.  I 
to  my  mother, 
eary  face, 
sry  ill.  You 
f  kiss  her." 
•ied,  "  Mama, 
atiently,  shut- 
it.  The  pain 
1  my  clenched 
crying  again, 

J  nurse  as  she 
aether." 
d  her  to  lead 
looked  back; 
lon  me  with  a 

k  and  led  into 
face  I  dearly 
)osom,  and  her 
n  of  my  baby 
c.  That  rigid 
not  my  bright, 
ys  smiled  and 
!  for  me ;  so  I 
1  the  library, 
ilack  sash  and 
ad  against  the 


THE  HEAD  WITH  THE  BLACK  BEBRETTA.    5 

painted  face,  I  wept  bitterly,  the  first  tears  of  real 
sorrow  that  I  had  ever  shed. 

When  my  father  came  in  and  found  me  alone  with 
the  picture,  I  told  him  that  Itaphael  was  sorry 
because  mama  was  dead.  He  looked  at  me  tenderly 
and  sadly  as  he  led  me  from  the  room,  and  said,  in  a 
broken  voice,  '<  Poor,  motherless  child  I  Thank  God,  if 
your  illusions  are  of  any  comfort  to  you." 

From  that  day  the  head  with  the  black  berretta  was 
the  confidant  of  all  my  childish  sorrows. 

II. 

Mt  father  was  a  fine,  tall  man  with  blue  eyes  and  fair 
hair.  The  Marklands  were  of  the  pure  Saxon  type,  a 
good  north  of  England  family  that  could  trace  its  ances- 
tors back  to  the  Invasion.  And  that,  surely,  was  remote 
enough  to  satisfy  the  most  ardfent  lover  of  ancient 
pedigree, 

They  were  a  quiet,  scholarly  race  of  men,  little  given 
to  show  or  pleasure,  and  the  women  of  the  family  were 
noted  for  their  domestic  virtues  rather  than  for  great 
beauty  or  rare  talents. 

Before  my  father  became  of  age,  he  lost  both  parents 
and  a  younger  brother  ;  therefore,  he  was  the  last  of  his 
name.  He  had  but  one  sister,  who  married  the  Rector 
of  Haddingham,  the  Rev.  Ernest  Lorriraer,  younger 
brother  of  Lord  Hardmoor. 

The  revenue  of  the  Markland  estate  was  not  large, 
ni)(l  my  f-ther,  having  no  ties  to  bind  him  to  his  early 
]K)ni\  invfVrred  to  live  on  the  continent,  where  he 
could  econcmiize,  and,  at  the  same  time,  indulge  bis 
passionate  love  of  art. 


HlHiiMiii 


r" 


6 


THE   STORY   OF   AN    ENTHUSIAST. 


I 


In  Paris,  at  tho  mature  age  of  forty,  he  met  my 
mother,  the  bright,  bewitching  Sophie  Delaborde,  v.ho, 
being  pleased  with  the  grave  handsome  Englisliman, 
and  her  family  finding  it  a  snitiible  alliance,  was 
married  to  him  after  a  short  acqnaintance.  They 
passed  the  first  months  of  their  happy  union  in  Italy, 
where  my  father  cultivated  his  taste  for  art  and  letters, 
and  my  mother  sang  away  the  sunny  days  as  blithe  as 

a  bird. 

Shortly  after  their  return  to  Paris,  I  was  born,  and 
then,  as  my  father  said  just  before  his  death,  his  happi- 
ness was  complete.  There  was  nothing  to  disturb  the 
serene  pleasure  of  their  lives  for  eight  years,  then  my 
baby  sister  came  for  a  few  days  and  went  away,  taking 
my  lovely  young  mother  with  her  from  a  life  that  had 
given  more  of  happiness  than  falls  to  the  common  lot  of 

mortals. 

After  her  death  my  father  was  a  changed  man.  The 
few  years  of  their  separation  was  but  one  long  night  of 
sorrow,  followed  by  the  dawn  of  Eternity. 

III. 

There  are  some  little  incidents  in  the  quiet,  sad  years 
that  followed  my  mother's  death  which  stand  out  dis- 
tinctly from  the  blurred  background  of  my  memory, 
while  all  else  is  a  blank.  One  is  of  a  day  when  my 
father  led  me  through  the  galleries  of  the  Luxembourg. 
We  were  both  clad  in  the  deepest  mourning;  he  sad  and 
pale,  as  he  always  was  now,  and  I  wonderfuyy  mature 
and  thoughtful  for  my  years.  '' 

We  stood  before  the  celebrated  "  Sunrise  "  of  Callet. 
«  Do  you  like  it  ?  "  asked  my  father. 


■-:tt?ssiS.'J 


1A8T. 

ty,  he  met  my 
Delaborde,  v.ho, 
ae  Englishman, 
!  alliance,  waa 
intanoe.  They 
union  in  Italy, 
•  art  and  letters, 
lys  as  blithe  as 

I  was  born,  and 
leath,  his  happi- 
;  to  disturb  the 
;  years,  then  my 
!nt  away,  taking 
I  a  life  that  had 
le  common  lot  of 

nged  man.  The 
)ne  long  night  of 

ty. 


e  quiet,  sad  years 
3h  stand  out  dis- 
of  my  memory, 
a  day  when  my 
the  Luxembourg. 
:ning ;  he  sad  and 
mderfuyy  mature 

lurise"  of  Callet. 


THE  HEAD  WITH  THE  BLACK  BERRETTA.    7 

"No"  I  replied,  after  some  serious  deliberation, 
"not  as  I  like  my  Eaphael ;  there  is  no  life  in  this 
picture.  I  like  a  face  with  eyes  that  look  through  and 
through  me,  as  though  it  understands  all  I  am  thinking 

of." 

"Well,  tell  me,  is  not  this  better?"  he  said,  turning 

to  the  marble  group  of  Cupid  and  Psyche. 

I  looked  at  it  carefully  for  some  time,  a  love  for  the 
beautiful  struggling  within  my  soul  and  trying  to  find 
expression  in  words.  , 

"I  can't  say,  papa,"  I  answered,  doubtfully.  "It  is 
pretty,  but  it  don't  seem  real.  It  seems  cold  and 
strange.  It  makes  me  feel  as  I  did  when  dear  mama 
lay  dead.  There  is  no  life  nor  love  there.  The  eyes 
look  within ;  they  don't  gaze  out  at  me  and  say  words 
that  I  can  understand  although  I  don't  hear  them." 

My  father  looked  at  me  thoughtfully,  and  then  said, 
with  more  than  his  usual  earnestness,  "My  child,  when 
you  are  older,  I  think  you  will  be  an  artist,  not  a  sculp- 
tor, but  a  painter.  Only  the  form  and  color  of  the 
human  figure,  the  life  and  soul  of  God's  last  and  best 
creation,  will  satisfy.  Eemember  my  words  when  I  am 
no  longer  with  you,  and  wake  the  Raphael  you  already 
love  your  guide,  your  standard,  your  teacher.  Worship 
your  Art ;  give  your  life  to  it,  sacrifice  all  else,  so  that 
you  may  be  a  single-hearted,  patient,  devout  disciple  of 

so  great  a  master." 

Again,  some  time  after,  we  were  in  the  gallery  of  the 
Louvre,  standing  before  the  Saint  Michael  of  Raphael. 
»There  for  the  first  time  the  divinity  of  genius  impressed 
me  with  its  wonderful  power.  I  was  a  child,  yet  I 
understood  the  difference  between  the  mortal  and  the 
immortal.    This  exquisite  knowledge  dawned  upon  my 


am 


8 


THE  STORY  OF  AN  ENTHUSIAST. 


heart  like  the  first  crimson  flush  of  morning  searching 
into  the  depths  of  a  budding  rose.    The  leaves  expanded 
in  the  after  glow  of  noon's  refulgence,  hut  no  revelation 
that  came  later  was  as  sweet  as  the  consciousness  that 
I  had  recognized  my  ideal,  the  art  god  whom  I  could 
worship  and  reverence  ;  and  mingled  with  this  new-born 
joy  was  a  feeling  of  solemn  gratitude  that  the   power 
had  been  given  to  me  to  understand  a  mystery  that  is 
revealed  to  only  a  small  portion  of    humanity,  that 
within  my  soul  was  something  akin  to  genius,  that  en- 
abled me  to  understand  the  wide  distance  between  it  and 
talent.     One  is  immortal,  the  other  mortal ;  one  given  to 
satisfy  the  spiritual,  the  other  the  human. 

I  looked  at  my  father  with  his  sad  face  and  solemn 
eyes  that  seemed  to  be  searching  into  the  mysteries  of 
Eternity,  and  wondered  if  he  had  eaten  of  the  tree  of 
life ;  but  I  could  not  express  to  him  what  I  felt,  neither 
could  I  explain  what  had  been  revealed  to  me.  I  could 
only  remain  silent  while  the  waves  of  emotion  surged 
and  beat  within  my  little  frame  until  they  welled  up 
and  burst  through  my  eyes  in  a  passionate  flood  of 

tears. 

My  father  was  surprised  and  alarmed.  He  could  not 
understand  why  I  wept,  and  gently  urged  me  to  tell  him 
the  cause  of  my  emotion ;  but  how  could  I  explain  what 
I  felt,  when  I  knew  no  language  that  could  express  it. 

At  last,  finding  that  entreaty  was  useless,  he  tried  to 
divert  me  by  leading  me  to  a  seat  where  a  gentleman 
with  fine  eyes  and  expressive  features  sat  studying  a  pic 
ture  of  Titiens.    When  he  saw  my  father,  he  started  uip 
and  shook  hands  cordially  with  him ;  then  he  turned  hlT 
inquiring  gaze  to  my  flushed,  excited  face. 

«  This  is  my  son,"  said  my  father,  while  he  wiped  my 


~-a>se!fesK»S<fS«'*!SSI»*MISMK'-5 


9IAST. 

arning  searching 
leaves  expanded 
but  110  revelation 
msciousness  that 
d  whom  I  could 
ith  this  new-born 
that  the   power 
,  mystery  that  is 
humanity,  that 
)  genius,  that  en- 
ice  between  it  and 
rtal ;  one  given  to 
lan. 

face  and  solemn 
the  mysteries  of 
en  of  the  tree  of 
hat  I  felt,  neither 
i  to  me.  I  could 
)f  emotion  surged 
1  they  welled  up 
issionato   flood  of 

ed.    He  could  not 
ged  me  to  tell  him 
lid  I  explain  what 
jould  express  it. 
seless,  he  tried  to 
here  a  gentleman 
sat  studying  a  pic- 
her,  he  started  ua| 
then  he  turned  hra 
face, 
irhile  be  wiped  my 


THE  HEAD  WITH  THE  BLACK  BERBETTA.    9 

wet  eyes;  then  he  added  with  a  smile,  "He  is  such  an 
excitable  little  enthusiast  that  I  am  almost  ashamed  of 

him." 

My  father's  friend  took  my  hand  with  the  most  win- 
ning kindness,  smoothed  my  hair,  and  looked  earnestly 
into  my  face;  then,  touching  my  forehead  with  his  fin- 
ger, he  said,  "  Here  is  no  common  intellect,  Markland. 
Your  son  has  an  organization  of  remarkable  sensibility ; 
come  and  sit  here,  my  little  friend,  and  tell  me  what  you 
think  of  the  pictures." 

In  a  few  moments  I  was  leaning  confidingly  against 
his  shoulder  and  chatting  freely,  telling  him,  in  my  sim- 
ple language,  how  each  impressed  me  and  which  I  pre- 
ferred.  Both  he  and  ray  father  listened  attentively, 
smiling  from  time  to  time  ;  and  when  I  said  that  I  would 
rather  have  one  Raphael  than  all  the  other  pictures  in 
the  Louvre,  they  laughed  heartily. 

On  our  way  home  my  father  told  me  that  the  gentle- 
man with  whom  we  had  been  talking  was  M.  Gerard,  a 
famous  painter,  and  that  if  I  would  learn  to  control  my 
feelings  and  try  not  to  cry  when  I  was  excited,  he 
would  take  me  to  see  his  studio,  which  would  be  a  rare 
treat  for  a  boy  who  loved  pictures. 

IV. 

I  GAVE  my  father  but  little  peace  after  our  visit  to 
the  Louvre  until  he  took  me  to  see  M.  Gerard's  studio, 
for  I  was  impatient  and  curious  to  see  a  place  where 

■ipictures  were  made. 

^Muoh  to  my  disappointment,  when  we  reached  the. 
Bue  Mazarine,  the  servant  told  us  that  Monsieur  was  en- 
gaged  a»d  did  not  see  visitors  on  that  day.    However, 


m 


10 


THE  8T0BY  OP  AN  ENTHUSIAST. 


my  father  sent  his  card  in,  when,  greatly  to  my  delight, 
the  man  returned  and  asked  us  to  enter. 

For  softio  momouts  after  wo  were  shown  into  the  pres- 
ence of  the  distinguished  painter,  I  was  so  bewildered 
that  I  could  only  cling  to  my  father's  .hand  and  stare 
curiously  at  the  pictures,  which  seemed  to  be  fantastic 
groups  of  people,  while  the  living  models  looked  less  life- 
like  than  tj^oir  wonderful  representations. 

M.  Gerard  was  at  that  time  engaged  on  his  celebrated 
picture,  which  to-day  hangs  in  the  gallery  of  the  Louvre, 
'<  Henry  IV.  Entering  Paris."  The  immense  canvas  on 
which  he  worked  was  stretched  across  the  centre  of  a 
vast  room,  lighted  by  a  lofty  window  screened  with  flut- 
tering drapery  of  different  .shades  and  texture,  which 
toned  and  subdued  the  light  to  the  will  of  the  artist. 

On  the  top  of  a  flight  of  steps  sat  M.  Gerard,  dressed 
in  a  flowered  damask  jacket,  and  cap  of  green  velvet 
with  a  long  tassel,  which  I  thought  very  pretty,  falling, 
as  it  did,  over  his  beautiful  hair.  I  remember  that  he 
was  smoking  the  oddest-looking  pipe  I  had  ever  seen, 
while  he  laid  on  the  color  rapidly  from  such  a  large  pal- 
ette that  I  thought  his  arm  must  ache  from  holding  it. 

When  he  saw  us,  he  looked  down  from  his  high  perch, 
smiling  cordially  while  he  said,  with  his  pipe  still 
between  his  lips :  "  How  good  of  you  to  come  to-day,  my 
friend.  It  is  one  of  my  dull  days,  and  I  need  some 
one  to  brighten  me  up.  Make  yourself  comfortable,  and 
I  will  be  down  as  soon  as  I  have  laid  the  lights  on  this 

helmet." 

Half  the  length  of  the  room  from  where  we  stood  ,$ 
was  a  raised  platform,  and  on  it  were  grouped  a  number 
of  figures  in  fantastic  costumes.    The  most  striking  per- 
sonage was  a  soldier  with  a  drawn  sword  in  hfa  hand. 


an 


ai 


-.r*-;=-,ts«s«*='«P^-'^*''^'^"""' 


AST. 
to  my  delight, 

u  into  the  pres- 

i  so  bewildered 

hand  and  stare 

to  be  fantastic 

looked  less  life- 

3. 

1  his  celebrated 
y  of  the  Louvre, 
lense  canvas  on 
the  centre  of  a 
eened  with  flut- 

texture,  which 
of  the  artist. 

G«Srard,  dressed 
of  green  velvet 
y  pretty,  falling, 
member  that  he 
[  had  ever  seen, 
such  a  large  pal- 
•om  holding  it. 
a  his  high  perch, 
I    his  pipe  still 

come  to-day,  my 
id  I  need  some 
comfortable,  and 
le  lights  on  this 

where  we  stood, 
rouped  a  number 
aost  striking  per- 
ord  in  hie  hand. 


THE  HEAD  WITH  THE  BLACK  BEUKETTA.   11 

which  was  grotesque  in  the  extreme,  the  upper  part  of 
his  body  being  dressed  in  complete  armor,  while  his  legs 
and  feet  were  covered  witli  blue  woollen  stockings  and 
wooden  shoos.  Behind  him  stood  an  old  man  with  long 
gray  hair,  his  hands  clasped  and  his  eyes  raised  upward, 
while  near  him  knelt  a  young  woman  with  a  pretty  fiuje, 
and  a  rich  velvet  mantle  thrown  over  a  shabby  gown. 

This  strange  incongruity  puzzled  me,  and  I  looked 
inquiringly  at  my  father,  who  smiled  at  my  surprise,  and 
said  in  a  low  tone:  "These  are  models.  Look,  M. 
Gerard  is  now  working  on  the  helmet  of  the  nuui  in 
armor,  lie  has  grouped  them  in  that  way  to  find  the 
relative  effects  of  light  and  shade,  of  form  and  color. 
To-day,  he  is  painting  on  the  upper  part  of  the  figures; 
therefore  it  does  not  matter  how  the  lower  part  is 
dressed." 

The  canvas  puzzled  me  exceedingly.  In  the  centre 
was  a  magnificently  accoutred  rider,  mounted  on  a 
superb  black  charger  with  fiery  eyes  and  distended  nos- 
trils, whose  head-gear  glistened  with  gems  and  his 
breast  with  plates  of  burnished  gold.  So  perfectly  was 
it  wrought  that  both  horse  and  man  seemed  to  be 
springing  toward  me  full  of  life  and  motion,  while  all 
around  this  nearly  completed  group  were  blotches  of 
color,  patches  of  light  and  shade,  —  here  a  face,  there  a 
hand,  a  part  of  a  figure,  a  pliuned  helmet,  a  shieldA  bit 
of  drapery,  all  mingled  together  in  the  strangest  confu- 
sion. 

"In  time  it  will  come  right,"  my  father  explained. 
«  These  are  but  bits  laid  on  here  and  there,  but  the  per- 
fect design  is  under  the  whole." 

"Now  move!"  said  M.  Gerard,  with  a  merry  whistle, 
and  directly  the  figures  trooped  down  from  the  plat- 


afittna 


Jhi 


m^^-' 


12 


THE  BTOnY  OF   AN  KNTHU8IAST. 


form  in  their  queer  costumes  aiul  disappeared  silently 
l)ehiiid  II  Bcreen.  Only  one  reniiiiued,  seated  in  an 
autiqao  (^hair,  and  dressed  in  thn  same  armor  as  was 
the  man  on  liorsobaek;  lio  wore  the  same  tall  lielmet 
covered  with  gems,  and  at  the  top  a  tuft  of  scarlet 
plumes.  Ho  diil  not  move,  neitlutr  tlid  the  plumes  wave 
in  the  least.  The  utter  immobility  of  the  figure  sur- 
prised me,  and,  touching  my  father's  arm,  I  asked,  in  a 
half-whisper:  "  Why  d«)n't  he  go  too,  papa?  " 

M.  Gerard  had  (U'scended,  and  was  shaking  hands 
with  my  father.  lie  heard  my  question,  looked  at  me 
with  a  quizzical  smile,  then  at  the  motionless  figure,  and 
broke  into  a  hearty  laugh. 

His  amusement  mortified  and  vexed  me,  and  in  my 
confusion  I  set  my  hat  on  the  palette  of  wet  paint 
which  M.  Gc'rard  had  just  laid  on  a  table  near  us,  where- 
upon my  father  reproved  me  severely  for  my  awkward- 
ness. This  brought  the  quick  tears  to  niy  eyes,  but  I 
drove  them  back  resolutely,  determined  that  M.  Gerard 
should  not  see  me  cry  again. 

"  Don't  scold  him  ! "  said  the  painter,  patting  my  head 
kindly.  "Come  and  I  will  show  you  why  he  does  not 
go  with  the  others."  Then,  with  a  merry  laugh,  he 
lifted  me  on  to  the  platform,  close  beside  the  man  in 
the  helmet.  At  first  I  was  a  littld  frightened,  then 
thoroughly  chagrined  when  I  discovered  that  it  was 
only  a  lay  figure  dressed  as  a  king. 

While  my  father  and  M.  Gerard  talked  earnestly 
before  the  picture,  on  which  the  artist  was  leaving  the 
best  impression  of  his  mature  genius,  I  examit.ed  more 
carefully  the  dim  corners  and  wide  walls,  which  were 
filled  frith  treasures  that  were  new  and  wonderful  to  me. 
From  time  to  time  scraps  of  their  conversation  fell  on 


cl 

r 

s 

0 
V 

t 


gU!.'!*" 


■liilfll 


AHT. 

pcart'il  silently 
Bt-atud   in    an 

armor  as  was 
me  tall  helmt't 
t\if't  of  scarlet 
lio  plumes  wave 

the  iimive  sur- 
n,  I  asked,  in  a 
pa  ?  " 

shaking  hands 
1,  looked  at  me 
iilesH  ligure,  and 

me,  and  in  my 
B  of  wet  paint 
)  near  us,  where- 
jr  my  awkward- 
wy  eyes,  but  I 
that  M.  Gerard 

patting  my  head 
vhy  he  does  not 
merry  laugh,  he 
tide  the  man  in 
frightened,  then 
red  that  it  was 

talked  earnestly 
was  leaving  the 
;  examit.ed  more 
alls,  which  were 
wonderful  to  me. 
aversatioQ  fell  on 


TiiK  iCKAi)  wrTii  TiiR  nr,A<'K  umiuicrrA.      t^ 

my  oaf.  §m'h  words  as  "  manniT,"  "  nchool,"  "  hreailth," 
"lone,"  and  such  names  as  "Daviil,"  "  I'rudhon,"  "Mi- 
chotloll,"  ami  "  Voriiot,"  romaiiiiMl  lixcd  forever  in  my 
memory.  1  know  these  words  related  to  painting,  and 
r  knew  theM((  names  kdnnged  to  those  who  had  distin- 
guished themselves  in  art. 

I  was  not  (lid  enough  to  iniderstand  fully  all  that  was 
said,  yet  this  conversation  made  a  deep  impression 
on  my  plastic  mind.  In  fa(!t,  it  convinced  mo  that  I 
was  born  to  bo  an  artist  j  that  I  was  endowed  with  a 
gift  from  (iod  moro  rare,  more  precious  than  any  earthly 
treasure;  that  I  possessed  this  mysterious  power  within 
myself,  and  that  I  never  could  bo  deprived  of  it  save  by 
God  who  gave  it. 

I  beliovo  M.  (Jorard's  studio  contained  every  require- 
ment of  his  profession  — casts  from  the  antiqnP- casts 
from  the  best  modern  works,  rare  old  leather  hangings, 
rich  tapestry,  dimmed  and  softened  by  time  into  the 
harmony  of  tone  that  artists  lovo  so  dearly,  cabinets  of 
ancient  tarsia  and  carved  ebony  inlaid  with  ivory  and 
precious  metals,  armor  engraved  with   quaint   designs, 
its  lustre  tarnished  here  and  there  by  blotches  of  rust 
that  glowed  red  like  blood,  mirrors  of  polished  steel 
which  once  might  have  adorned  the  palace  of  a  Venetian 
doge,  glass  ware  of  exquisite  shape,  as  clear  and  trans- 
parmt  as  bright-tiute<l  bubbles,  silver  cups  and  candela- 
bra, copied  from  the  designs  of  Ghiberti  and  Bellini, 
ivory  frames  in  quaint  carving,  stuffs  of  wonderful  tint 
and  texture  from  every  loom  on  the  face  of  the  globe. 
In  short,  what  seemed  to  my  childish  eyes  a  collection 
of  wonders,  a  perfect  museum  of  curiosities. 

But  none  of  these  beautiful  objects  interested  me  as 
did  the  studies  and  sketches  fastened  to  every  available 


MiBlWllMt(M><!!nHR!?S!!!!C 


14 


THE  STORY   OF   AN    KNTHU8IA8T. 


space  on  the  wail,  lying  on  the  tables,  cabinet^,  and 
chairs,  bursting  out  of  crowded  portfolios,  m«king 
bright  bits  of  color  wherever  I  looked. 

There  were  figures  lying  solitary  on  the  far-reaching 
sands  of  the  deseit,  others  sitting  drearily  on  a  rock- 
bound  shore,  their  mysterious  eyes  seeming  to  look 
away  beyond  the  horizon  into  infinite  distance;  some 
with  bowed  heads  and  clasped  hands  shrank  from  invisi- 
ble danger,  others  crouched  and  cowered  beneath  a  burden 
of  agony  too  heavy  to  bear,  while  some  stood  erect,  proud 
and  defiant.  Here  every  human  passion  was  depicted 
with  painful  power ;  despair  crushed  beneath  its  own 
weight ;  anguish,  both  mental  and  physical,  appealing  to 
heaven  with  white  lips  and  strained  eyes ;  sweetly  sor- 
rowful faces,  that  melted  the  heart  to  tears ;  groups  of 
figures  in  the  wildest  abandon  of  mirth ;  bewitching 
forms  full  of  allurement ;  hints  of  every  passion,  every 
emotion  that  has  moved  the  heart  of  humanity  since 
time  began. 

As  I  searched  with  eager  delight  into  this  mysterious 
litter  of  genius,  I  was  happy  to  feel  that  in  a  measure  I 
understood  its  power,  that  it  appealed  to  me  as  one  soul 
appeals  to  another. 

These  sketches  were  in  many  cases  coarse,  crude,  and 
ill  defined,  yet  almost  divine  in  their  incompleteness. 
They  were  the  result  of  toil  and  study,  and  demon- 
strated the  unalterable  laws  of  art  as  well  as  the  out- 
pouring of  the  immortal  stream  fresh  and  pure  from  the 
soul  of  the  artist. 

It  seemed  to  me  only  a  few  moments,  but  it  must  have 
been  more  than  an  hour  that  I  was  left  to  the  contem- 
plation of  this  charming  collection,  when  my  father's 
words  attracted  my  notice. 


AST. 


THE  HKAD  WITH  THE  BLACK  BERRETTA.    15 


,  cabinet;^,  and 
folios,  making 

le  fai-reaching 
rily  ou  a  rock- 
eining  to  look 
distance;  some 
ink  from  invisi- 
jneath  a  burden 
5od  erect,  proud 
II  was  depicted 
eneath  its  own 
al,  appealing  to 
58;  sweetly  sor- 
sars;  groups  of 
th ;  bewitching 
r  passion,  every 
humanity  since 

this  mysterious 
b  in  a  measure  I 
>  me  as  one  soul 

arse,  crude,  and 
incompleteness, 
iy,  and  demon- 
yell  as  the  cut- 
id  pure  from  the 

but  it  must  have 

to  the  contem- 

len  my  father's 


"The  child  is  evidently  enraptured,"  he  said  to  M. 
Gerasd,  who  was  watching  me  attentively.  "  I  am  sure 
he  has  an  inborn  love  of  art,  and  if  he  wishes  to  make  it 
a  study  when  he  is  older  he  shall  do  so." 

"  Let  him  begin  early,  then,"  replied  M.  Gerard.  "  Al- 
low the  cunning  of  the  hand  to  grow  and  perfect  itself 
with  the  intellectual  growth.  Train  the  eye  and  the 
brain  together,  and,  more  than  all,  train  the  heart ;  there 
must  be  a  great  loving  heart  to  make  the  artist  worthy 
of  his  calling,  a  heart  that  can  embrace  nature  and 
humanity  in  one  clasp;  that  can  find  beauty  and  grace  in 
the  meanest  thing  God  has  made  as  well  as  in  his  most 
wonderful  creation.  And  train  him  physically;  make 
the  outward  man  as  perfect  as  the  inward ;  develop  his 
stature ;  make  him  tall,  but  not  too  tall  to  heed  the  earth 
he  walks  upon ;  nor  so  low  that  he  cannot  see  the  stars. 
Give  him  breadth  and  strength,  for  I  hold  that  a  good 
artist  must  be  a  perfect  man;  and  teach  him  to  love 
his  fellow-men  with  an  unbounded  generosity,  for  egotism 
will  stifle  and  murder  genius.  The  two  cannot  live 
together,  nor  did  the  Creator  mean  that  they  should. 
Genius  is  of  God,  and  egotism  is  the  vilest  dreg  in  our 
miserable  clay.  And,  my  friend,  don't  fail  to  give  the 
boy  an  example  to  follow.  Teach  him  early  of  our 
High-Priest  Raphael.  Show  him  where  he  stands,  on  the 
very  pinnacle  of  fame ;  let  him  know  that  immortality 
can  be  gained  on  earth,  that  there  are  some  who  never 
die,  who  after  centuries  still  exist  in  the  great  throbbing 
heart  of  the  world.  Imbue  his  nature  with  this  feeling, 
teach  him  the  religion  of  art,  steep  his  soul  in  love  for 
the  highest,  the  noblest,  the  best ;  only  in  that  way  will 
he  excel  and  reach  heights  unattainable  to  others." 
I  listened  to  every  word  M.  CWrard  said  with  the 


ilmi 


i-'i! 


16 


THE  STORY  OF  AN  ENTHTTSIAST. 


'^1 

n 


deepest  attention.  My  eyes  must  have  told  him  how 
well  I  understood  him,  how  deeply  every  impassioned 
word  was  written  on  my  memory  in  characters  that 
could  never  be  effaced. 

From  that  day  in  the  Louvre,  when  the  power  of 
genius  was  first  revealed  to  me,  I  date  my  spiritual 
birth,  and  I  must  ever  think  of  M.  Gerard  as  the  one 
who  first  taught  me  the  true  sublimity  of  art,  andwhpse 
glowing  words  led  me  to  consecrate  my  life  to  it.    For 
at  that  moment  I  resolved  to  follow  his  advice,  to  give 
my  life  to  art,  to  work  and  study  constantly,  until  I 
approached  the   standard  that  he  had  set   up.     And 
Raphael,  the  idol  of  my  childhood,  should  be  the  glori- 
ous example  for  my  youth  and  manhood.    He  was  no 
ideal  being,  no  dim  creation  of  fancy  or  mythology;  but 
a  man,  who  had  once  been  a  child,  who  had  wept  and 
laughed,  who  had  suffered  and  enjoyed,  who  had  striven 
and  conquered,  winning  fame  far  beyond  that  of  any 
other  human  being.  .•      -i        -» 

While  M.  Gerard  was  speaking  I  went  to  his  side  and 
slipped  my  hand  into  his.  I  could  not  speak  -  my  emo- 
tion choked  me  so  that  I  could  not  utter  a  word;  but  I 
think  he  understood  what  I  felt  while  I  caressed  the 
kind  hand  that  clasped  mine. 

«  Should  you  like  to  study  with  M.  Gerard  when  you 
are  older?"  asked  my  father,  looking  at  me  with  a 

gentle  smile. 

"Oh,  yes,  papa,"  I  replied,  with  all  my  heart  in  my 
eyes;  "and  I  will  try  to  do  as  he  wishes  so  that  I  may 
be  a  great  painter  some  day." 

"We  will  see  in  a  few  years,"  said  M.  Gdrard,  stUl 
holding  my  hand,  and  smiling  on  me  with  that  winning 
tenderness  that  endeared  him  to  all  who  knew  him. 


AST. 


THE  HEAD  WITH  THE  BLACK  BEKKBTTA.    17 


told  him  how 
ry  impassiuned 
jharacters  that 

I  the  power  of 
;e  my  spiritual 
rard  as  the  one 
fart,  and  whose 
life  to  it.    For 
s  advice,  to  give 
istantly,  until  I 
set   up.     And 
aid  be  the  glori- 
od.    He  was  no 
mythology;  but 
10  had  wept  and 
who  had  striven 
»nd  that  of  any 

it  to  his  side  and 
speak  —  my  emo- 
er  a  word ;  but  I 
ie  I  caressed  the 

Gerard  when  you 
Lg  at  me  with  a 

,  my  heart  in  my 
es  so  that  I  may 

i  M.  Gdrard,  stUl 
with  that  winning 
ho  knew  him. 


After  that  we  took  our  leave,  promising  to  repeat  our 
visit  soon.  But  alas  for  me!  Alas  for  France!  I 
never  saw  him  again.  I  had  listened  to  his  eloquent 
words,  and  looked  upon  his  kind  face  for  the  last 
time.  Before  another  meeting  took  place,  he  left 
Paris  for  Rome  where  he  died  at  the  very  zenith  of 
his  fame. 


One  never  to  be  forgotten  evening  I  went  to  my 
father,  who  was  alone  in  his  study,  and,  as  was  my 
usual  habit  while  he  talked  to  me,  I  drew  a  chair  close 
beside  him  and  leaned  my  head  against  his  shoulder. 
He  encircled  me  fondly  with  his  arm,  but  seemed  dis- 
inclined to  talk ;  however,  I  was  perfectly  contented  to 
sit  in  silence  while  I  could  study  my  favorite  picture. 
The  mysterious  intelligence  of    the  eyes,   the  gentle 
reserve  of  the  closed  lips  seemed  to  conceal  a  secret 
from  me,  the  secret  of  his  humanity ;  his  sorrows  and 
joys,  his  desires  and  passions,  his  defeats  and  victories, 
all  seemed  hidden  under  that  calm,  pensive  gaze,  tight 
locked  under  that  impassive  mask  that  smiled  serenely 
before  me.    I  had,  in  a  spirit  of  childish  confidence, 
revealed  to  him  all  the  secrets  of  my  heart,  while  from 
him  I  had  leai-ned  what  the  subtle  power  of  genius  im- 
parts to  one  who  can   understand  it.    Raphael,  until 
recently,  had  been  but  an  ideal  creation,  superhuman 
and  above  the  conception  of  a  mortal ;  but  now  that  I 
knew  he  had  once  lived  on  earth,  and  had  been  a  boy 
full  of  vague  dreams  and  ambitious  longings,  who  had 
eaten  and  drunk,  played  and  studied,  as  other  boyg  did, 
it  broH:j;ht  him  nearer  to  me,    I  could  understand  him 


■* 


■HtliiiifM 


18 


THE  8TOBY   OF  AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


more  intimately,  love  him  more  familiarly,  as  a  boy- 
genius  than  as  the  High-Priest  of  Art. 

"  Papa,"  I  said,  at  length,  looking  anxiously  at  him, 
he  was  so  very  pale  and  silent.     "  Papa,  can  you  tell  me  _ 
about  Raphael  this  evening  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  remember,  I  promised  you,"  he  replied,  in 
a  dreamy    voice,  coming  back  reluctantly    from    that 
mysterious  country  where  his  thoughts  so  often  jour- 
neyed.    "I  am  not  feeling  well,  and  I  have  given  orders 
that  I  am  not  to  be  disturbed,  so  I  may  as  well  try  to 
make  you  better  acquainted  with  the  history  of  the  mas- 
ter whom  you  intend  to  follow.    When  you  are  a  little 
older  I  wish  you  to  read  all  that  has  been  written  of 
this  remarkable  painter,  although,  in  my  opinion,  scarce 
any  author  has  praised  him   in  terms    equal    to    his 
merits,  excepting  perhaps  Vasari,  his  earliest  biographer, 
who,  although  a  pupil  and  worshipper  of  Michael  Angelo, 
his  only  rival,  if  Raphael  could  have  a  rival,  says  of  him 
that  'those  who  are  possessors  of  endowments  so  rich 
and  varied  as  were  assembled  in  his  person  are  scarcely 
to  be  called  men,  they  are  rather  entitled  to  the  ai)pel. 
lation  of  mortal  gods,'  and  he  adds  '  that  he  is  author- 
ized to  declare  that  he  who  by  means  of  his  work  has 
left  an  honored  name  on  the  records  of  fame  here  below 
may  also  hope  to  enjoy  such  rewards  in  heaven  as  are 
commensurate  to  and  worthy  of  his  labors  and  merits.' 
"When  you  arc  of  a  proper  age,  it  is  also  my  intention 
to  have  you  go  to  Rome  and  study  carefully  the  works  of 
this  great  master.     There  you  will  find  his  noblest  pro- 
ductions, and  there,  under  the  protection  of  the  French 
Academy,  you  will  have  every  facility  for  improvement ; 
and  if  you  are  only  faithful,  you  can  reach  an  enviable 
position  in  the  profession  I  wish  you  to  follow.     My 


(VST. 

rly,  as  a  boy- 

;iously  at  him, 
!an  you  tell  me  _ 

"  he  replied,  in 
tly    from    that 

so  often  jonr- 
ve  given  orders 

as  well  try  to 
;ory  of  the  mas- 

you  are  a  little 
)een  written  of 

opinion,  scarce 
equal   to    his 
iiest  biographer, 
Michael  Angelo, 
val,  says  of  him 
wments  so  rich 
son  are  scarcely 
3d  to  the  ai)pel- 
it  he  is  author- 
)f  his  work  has 
fame  here  below 
1  heaven  as  are 
>or8  and  merits.' 
,lso  my  intention 
Lilly  the  works  of 

his  noblest  pro- 
n  of  the  French 
or  improvement ; 
sach  an  enviiible 
.  to  follow.     My 


THE  HKAD  WITH  THE  BLACK  HEUUETTA. 


19 


child,"  here  he  laid  his  hand  caressingly  on  my  head, 
and  drew  me  closer  to  him,  while  his  voice  trembled 
with  restrained  emotion,  "  1  have  a  great  deal  to  say  to 
you  in  regard  to  your  future,  and  perhaps  I  ought  to  say 
it  now  for  I  fear  I  have  not  long  to  guide  you  through 
the  bewildering  mazes  of  life.     My  heart,  with  its  heavy 
muffled  beating,  warns  me  that  my  life  is  uncertain,  and 
that  your  dear  mother's  tomb  may  soon  be  opened  to 
receive  me.     For  some  time  I  have  been  wishing  to  say 
this  to  you,  to  prepare  you  in  a  measure  for  the  end  that 
may  soon  come.     It  is  nothing  new,  nothing  sudden. 
It  is  a  life-long  trouble,  aggravated  by  your  mothers 
death.     You  have  never  known  of  it,  for  I  could  not  bear 
to  cast  another  shadow  over  your  childhood." 

Hearing  my  sudden  sob  of  anguish,  he  clasped  me 
tightly,  with  nervous  energy,  close  to  his  heart,  where  I 
could  hear  plainly  its  heavy,  portentous  beating.    For  a 
long  time  we  both  remained  silent  in  the  shadow  of  an 
awful  calamity;  then  my  father,  mastering  his  emotion 
with  the  wonderful  strength  that  characterized  him, 
told  me,  in  a  quiet  monotone,  his  gentle  hand  still  caress- 
ing  my  hair,  the  last  story  I  ever  heard  from  his  lips, 
the  story  of  the  beautiful  boy  of  Urbino.    Of  his  birth  on 
Good  Friday  in  the  little  town  overlooking  the  green 
waves  of  the  Adriatic,  of  his  dreamy,  thoughtful  child- 
hood so  early  developed  in  works  of  wonderful  beauty, 
of  his  mother's  delight  in  his  precocious  talents,  his 
father's  pride  in  his  youthful  genius,  for  the  old  painter 
early  discovered  the  divine  gift  that  would  place  the  boy 
high  above  his  most  illustrious  countrymen.    Of  his  life 
in  the  studio  of  Perugino,  who  soon  acknowledged  a  mas- 
ter in  his  pupil.     Of  his  brilliant  career  in  Florence,  be- 
ginning with  a  letter  of  introduction  to  the  Gonfalonere 


MMM 


MHMi 


so 


THE  STORY   OF  AN    ENTHUSIAST. 


from  the  Duchess  of  Urbino,  whos(^  pride  and  interest  in 
her  young  protege  iufluencetl  his  whole  destiny.  Then 
came  his  summons  to  Home,  where  pope,  princes,  and 
cardinals  were  at  his  feet.  Wealth  poured  upon  him, 
every  honor  was  heaped  upon  his  favored  head.  His 
wonderful  wcrks  wore  considered  soni(^thing  more  than 
the  production  of  mortal  genius.  In  short,  whatever 
he  did  and  wherever  he  went  was  but  a  succession  of  tha 
most  brilliant  triumphs.  Followed  like  a  king  by  a 
retinue  of  adoring  disciples,  the  idol  of  the  court  and 
of  the  people,  this  youthful  prodigy  stood  alone  in  the 
grandeur  of  his  genius  and  the  beauty  of  his  virtue." 

My  young  heart  throbbed  with  delight  at  this  story  of 
a  youth  who  by  his  inborn  power  raised  himself  from 
the  common  level  to  be  a  king  among  men  — or  more,  a 

mortal  god. 

"But  how  could  such  as  he  die  and  leave  all  his 
glory  ^  "  I  asked,  with  heartfelt  anguish,  when  my  father 
finished  the  sad  description  of  his  early  death  and 
burial,  of  the  gloom  and  despair  of  a  nation  that  had 
suddenly  lost  its  idol;  "how  could  he  die  and  be  buried 
in  the  grave  like  any  other  u.an  ?  " 

"That  which  was  godlike  in  him  did  not  die,"  replied 
ray  father.  "  It  lives  to-day,  and  will  live  while  human- 
ity  lasts  and  time  endures.  The  imperishable  is  the 
fruit  of  the  soul,  the  soul  is  the  germ  of  immortality 
planted  in  us  by  God,  and  it  is  indestructible.  Happy 
is  the  man  who  leaves  for  ages,  aye  for  all  time,  a  living 
proof  of  his  divine  origin.  My  child,  it  is  not  given  to 
all  to  leave  this  eternal  record  of  truth ;  but  all  can 
aspire  to  it,  and  if  they  fail  in  attaining  the  supreme, 
they  can  still  gain  much,  for  he  who  cannot  reach  the 
Uiost  remote  stars  discovers  in  his  flight  many  nearer 


r^ssss 


lAST. 

;  and  interest  in 
destiny.     Then 
pe,  piiuces,  and 
uied  upon  him, 
)ied  head.     His 
;hing  more  than 
short,  whatever 
succession  of.  thfl 
ke  a  king  by  a 
)f  the  court  and 
3od  alone  in  the 
f  his  virtue." 
it  at  tliis  story  of 
ed  himself  from 
lien  —  or  more,  a 

ud  leave  all  his 
1,  when  my  father 
early  death  and 
nation  that  had 
lie  and  be  buried 

not  die,"  replied 
live  while  human - 
perishable  is  the 
m  of  immortality 
tructible.  Happy 
r  all  time,  a  living 
it  is  not  given  to 
•uth;  but  all  can 
ling  the  supreme, 

cannot  reach  the 
ight  many  nearer 


THE  HEAD   WITH   THE  BLACK  BEKBETTA.       21 

planets.  Will  you  promise  me  to  aspire  only  to  what  is 
true,  to  sacrifice  all,  even  worldly  prosperity,  for  truth, 
to  aim  high,  to  strive  for  the  loftiest  point  to  which  the 
soul  can  reach.  Understand  fully  all  you  attempt. 
Investigate  what  ia  hidden  from  ordinary  minds.  Strive 
only  for  that  which  has  truth  for  its  basis.  Love  your 
art  with  all  your  soul.  Love  it  faithfully,  seriously, 
truthfully.  A  life's  study,  a  life's  devotion  is  not  too 
great  an  offering  to  give  to  your  chosen  vocation.  Unite 
the  love  of  it  with  your  love  of  religion  and  nature,  for 
so  you  can  best  worship  your  Creator. 

"When  I  am  not  here  to  speak  to  you,  remember  all 
that  I  have  said.  And  if  I  cannot  rejoice  on  earth  in 
your  success,  if  you  succeed,  or  weep  with  you,  if  you 
fail,  in  eternity  I  may  know  all,  and  you  must  live  as 
if  my  eyes  were  ever  upon  you,  my  love  encouraging  and 
approving  every  noble  effort." 

Holding  his  dear  hand,  which  was  strangely  cold  and 
damp,  tightly  clasped  in  mine,  I  promised  him  solemnly 
never  to  forget  what  he  had  said  to  me,  and  to  try  to 
act  always  as  if  he  were  by  my  side.  And  I  can  truth- 
fully say  that  in  every  crisis  of  my  life  I  have  felt  that 
his  gaze  was  fixed  upon  me,  and  I  have  tried  to  decide 
in  a  way  that  I  was  sure  he  would  approve  of  could  he 
epeak  to  me  from  that  far-off  country.  Between  me  and 
it  there  is  eternal  silence ;  still,  I  hear  his  voice  at  times, 
ind  my  heart  is  comforted  and  sustained  by  a  love  that 
can  never  die. 

While  I  was  speaking,  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair  as 
though  he  were  tired,  closed  his  eyes,  and  appeared  to  be 
thinking  deeply.  Not  wishing  to  disturb  him,  I  remained 
silent,  and  was  soon  lost  in  the  visions  that  went  flitting 
through  my  brain,  mingling  in  light  and  shade  my 


22 


THE  STORY   OF  AN    ENTHUSIAST. 


father's  sadly  prophetic  words  with  the  golden  glow  of 
romance  that  surrounded  the  boy  of  Urbino. 

How  long  I  sat  there  dreaming  I  never  knew.  The 
first  thing  that  alarmed  me  was  the  strange  immobility 
of  the  form  against  which  I  leaned,  and  the  intense 
chill  of  the  hand  I  held  in  mine.  Springing  to  my  feet, 
I  looked  fearfully  into  his  face.  He  still  leaned  back, 
his  head  resting  quietly  against  the  cushion  of  the  chair, 
and  his  eyes  closed  as  though  in  deep  sleep.  But  the 
features  were  sharp  and  rigid,  and  of  a  dreadful  pallor, 
while  between  the  parted  lips  was  a  thin  line  of  white 
froth. 

"  Papa,  papa ! "  I  cried,  throwing  my  arms  around 
him,  but  he  did  not  hear  me,  his  soul  had  wandered 
away  to  my  mother,  and  had  forgotten  to  return.  When 
the  dreadful  truth  burst  upon  me,  I  tried  to  call  for 
help,  but  a  thick  darkness  closed  around  me,  a  great 
wave  of  sound  rushed  and  surged  over  me,  the  floor 
seemed  to  slip  from  under  my  feet,  and  I  fell  senseless 
at  his  side. 


VI. 

"The  boy  looks  physically  weak  and  intellectually 
mature.  Not  a  Markland,  not  at  all  English,  except 
perhaps  the  fair  hair,  which  is  Saxon ;  but  the  eyes, 
ab,  I  see  the  mother's  eyes !  the  features  and  the  eyes ! 
are  Gallic,  pure  Gallic,  more  of  the  Delaborde  than 
the  Markland  type.  And  his  name  not  even  a  family 
name ;  who  ever  heard  of  a  Felix  Markland  ?  I  suppose 
that  came  from  the  French  side  of  the  house.  I  do  hate 
these  national  mixtures;  however,  he  seems  a  quiet, 
amiable  sort  of  boy,  but  not  healthy,  not  at  all  healthy. 


8IAST. 

3  golden  glow  of 
bino. 

ever  knew.  The 
range  immobility 
and  the  intense 
iging  to  my  feet, 
still  leaned  back, 
hion  of  the  chair, 
)  sleep.  But  tlie 
I  dreadful  pallor, 
lin  line  of  white 

ny  arms  around 
lul  had  wandered 
to  return.  When 
tried  to  call  for 
ound  me,  a  great 
'er  me,  the  floor 
1  I  fell  senseless 


ind  intellectually 
English,  except 
n ;  but  the  eyes, 
res  and  the  eyes ! 
!  Delaborde  than 
ot  even  a  family 
land  ?  I  suppose 
house,  I  do  hate 
e  seems  a  quiet, 
ot  at  all  healthy. 


THK    HEAD   WITH    THE   BLACK   BERKETTA.         23 

Needs  English  air,  Lorrimer,  a  few  months  of  South 
iladdingham,  a  little  running  wild  over  the  moors,  and 
he  will  be  a  different-looking  boy  —  mark  my  words,  an 
entirely  different-looking  boy," 

The  person  who  thus  inspected  me,  turning  me  around 
with  an  exasperating  scrutiny,  and  delivering  his  opin- 
ion freely,  as  though  he  thought  that  I  did  not  under- 
stand the  English  language,  was  Lord  Hardmoor,  my 
uncle  Lorrimer's  brother,  a  coarse-featured,  red-faced 
man,  who  spoke  in  a  pompous  and  aggressive  manner, 
what  I  thought  to  be  detestable  English,  It  sounded  so 
unlike  my  father's  elegant  and  refined  way  of  speaking. 

My  uncle  Lorrimer,  whom  I  now  saw  for  the  first  time, 
was  a  short,  slight  man,  with  thin,  light  hair,  watery  blue 
eyes,  and  rather  a  feeble  voice,  with  a  disagreeable 
drone  at  the  end  of  each  sentence,  which  I  thought  he 
had  acquired  from  having  read  the  church  service  so 
often.  He  wore  glossy  black  clothes  of  a  decidedly 
clerical  cut,  a  stiff  white  cravat,  and  gold  spectacles,  and 
stood  as  though  his  lower  limbs  were  weafi,  wavering 
slightly,  his  hands  clasped  in  front  of  him  somewhat  in 
the  attitude  of  prayer. 

These  two  brothers,  so  little  alike,  had  come  from  Eng- 
land to  see  my  dear  father  laid  where  he  had  so  long 
wished  to  be,  by  my  mother's  side  in  Pere  le  Chaise, 
and  to  dispose  of  my  future  as  they  saw  proper. 

As  for  myself,  I  was  passive,  indifferent.  The  blow 
had  been  so  sudden  and  so  severe  that  I  had  not  yet 
recovered  from  its  benumbing  effects.  I  wished  to  be 
alone,  I  did  not  care  to  see  my  uncle,  neither  did  I 
desire  to  speak  or  to  be  spoken  to,  I  remained  most  of  the 
time  in  the  darkened  study,  caring  for  no  other  compan- 
ion than  the  sorrowful,  sympathetic  face  of  my  beloved 


S4 


TlIK   STORY   OF   AN    KNTliUSIAST. 


picture.  With  that  bi'lbii!  me,  1  lUd  not  feel  entirely 
bereaved.  To  look  at  it  gave  lae  Btreugth  and  patience. 
I  had  been  an  orpluin  sevtual  days,  which  seemed  ages, 
when  my  uncle  and  Lord  Hardmoor  arrived.  My  fath- 
er's lawyer  had  sent  for  them  directly,  aa  they  were  my 
guardians,  and  my  uncle  Lorrimer  was  the  only  male 
relative  I  had.  I  met  them  with  the  most  chilling 
indirterence.  There  was  no  lovo  nor  sympathy  in  the 
cold,  watery  eyes  of  tlie  Kev.  Ernest  Lorrimer,  nor  one 
gleam  of  pity  for  the  lonely,  sensitive  orphan  in  the 
self-satisfied,  worldly  face  of  Lord  Hardmoor.  I  shrank 
from  them  as  strangers ;  and  if  1  experienced  any  feeling, 
it  was  one  of  aversion.  Yet  I  knew  that  in  a  measure 
my  destiny  was  in  their  hands. 

Iviy  life  had  hitherto  been  so  quiet,  so  refined  and  iutel- 
!ec*-,ual,  for  I  hud  breathed  an  atmosphere  of  art  and 
pootry  from  my  cradle,  that  the  loud  voice,  the  robust 
figure  and  coarse  face  of  one,  and  the  grotesque  feeble- 
ness of  the  other,  shocked  my  artistic  sense,  and  jarred 
painfully  on  my  supersensitive  organization,  and  I  felt 
that  to  spend  my  future  life  in  th'3  society  of  these  two 
guardians  Avould  be  a  perpetual  martyrdom. 

I  had  not  seen  my  father  since  that  dreadful  night, 
but  there  were  always  before  me  the  rigid  features,  the 
distressed  mouth  with  the  line  of  froth  between  the  lips. 
I  tried  to  think  of  him  as  he  had  looked  in  life,  a  hand- 
some, melancholy  face,  full  of  tenderness  as  well  as  of 
pride  and  strength;  but  I  could  not  bring  back  the 
living  face,  for  the  dead  face  was  always  before  me. 

The  day  he  was  taken  away  forever,  I  begged  to  be  al- 
lowed to  remain  at  home  and  alone.  Bettine,  my  old  nurse, 
wished  to  stay  with  me.  I  shuddered  under  her  caress- 
ing hand.    There  could  be  no  more  love  or  caresses  for 


JSIAST. 

nut  feel  entirely 
b'th  and  patience. 
Inch  seemed  ages, 
ivrived.     My  futh- 

118  they  were  n»y 
as  the  only  male 
the   most  chilling 

■  sympathy  in  the 
Loirimer,  nor  one 
ve  orphan  in  the 
rdmoor.  I  shrank 
ienced  any  feeling, 

■  that  in  a  measure 

0  refined  and  iutel- 
sphere  of  art  and 
.  voice,  the  robust 

grotesque  feeble- 
;  sense,  and  jarred 
ization,  aud  I  felt 
ueiety  of  these  two 
rdom. 

at  dreadful  night, 
rigid  features,  the 
h  between  the  lips, 
ed  in  life,  a  haud- 
uess  as  well  as  of 
ot  bring  back  the 
ays  before  me. 
■,  I  begged  to  be  al- 
ittine,  my  old  nurse, 

1  under  her  caress- 
)ve  or  caresses  for 


THK  HEAD  WITH  THK  ULACK  HKI! 


FT  A. 


lii 


nu".  My  feeling  of  utter  loneliness  was  ^  lOphetic.  II 
was  the  foreslmdowing  of  the  dreariness,  the  lovelessnt-ss 
of  my  future. 

That  night,  when  all  was  over,  I  was  summoned  to  the 
great  dreary  sttlo/i,  where  my  two  guardians  were  sitting, 
Lord  Hardmoor  with  his  hands  thrust  into  his  jtockets, 
his  feet  on  tlie  fender,  and  liia  eyes  on  the  ceiling,  my 
uncle  Lorrimcr  i)erched  uneasily  on  the  edge  of  u  high 
chair,  liis  toes  inclined  inward,  his  loose  hands  folded 
over  liis  knees,  and  his  watery,  inexpressive  eyes  wan- 
dering vaguely  behind  his  spectacles,  and  I  a  little  black 
figure  standing  before  them  waiting  silently  for  some 
sign  from  these  autocrats  of  my  destiny. 

After  my  uncle  Lorrimer  liad  given  three  very  weak 
hem8  ending  in  a  drone  that  sounded  like  uh-men, 
he  said  timidly,  as  if  afraid  of  taking  the  initiative, 
"Brother  Hardmoor,  can  we  not  leave  to-morrow?  I 
think  poor  Markland's  lawyer  can  attend  to  everything 
here.  The  furniture,  pictures,  and  ornaments  had  better 
be  sold,  had  they  not  ?  " 

"Certainly  they  had,"  replied  Lord  Hardmoor,  tak- 
ing his  feet  from  the  fender,  and  his  eyes  from  the  ceil- 
ing, interested,  now  that  something  of  a  worldly  nature 
was  under  discussion.  "  Certainly,  everything  Imd  much 
better  be  sold  at  once.  Of  what  use  will  these  knick- 
knacks  be  to  the  boy?  1  suppose  they  have  a  certain  value ; 
therefore,  turn  them  into  money  and  invest  it  profitably, 
and  when  he  is  of  age  he  will  have  something  to  use  for 
tlie  improvement  of  his  estate.  Markland  has  sadly  neg- 
lected the  practical  side  of  life  through  his  love  for  art 
and  poetry,  and  his  estate,  which  might  have  been  worth 
something,  is  of  very  little  account.  I  hold  it  a  sin  for 
a  man  to  neglect." 


I 


26 


THE   STORY   OK    AN    KNTlll'HI AHl. 


"But,"  iiiUMiuptud  my  uncUs  hcMitatiuKly,  "  hiuln't 
we  better  iUscuhm  thut  hoiuo  other  time  iiud  attend  to 
more  pressiuj}  utt'airs  now.  X  want  to  get  hoi,.  aH  8oon 
aa  poHsibU'.  I  think  we  can  have  an  interviow  with  tlio 
lawyer  early  in  the  niorninK,  and  be  itn- pared  to  lake 
the  noon  diligence  tor  CalaiH,  and  reach  London  the 
next  evening  in  time  to  take  the  maiUioach  tor  Had- 
dingham." 

"  Yes,  yes.  It  can  be  do:  •^,  but  it  hccihh  to  roe  you 
are  rather  in  a  hurry  to  get  back  to  your  tiock.  One 
day  more  or  less  won't  matter  much ;  your  sheep  won't 
scatter  iu  that  time  beyond  the  rcacli  of  your  curate." 

"  It's  not  that,  Hardmoor ;  it's  not  that  at  all.  I'm 
thinking  of  Ernestine  and  the  children;  I  am  anxious 

about  iFhem." 

From  that  remark  I  inferred  that  my  uncle  Lonimer 
was  a  most  devoted  husband  and  father. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  understand,  you  are  anxious  about  them," 
returned  Lord  Hardmoor,  with  a  grim  smile,  and  an 
unmistakable  look  of  contempt.  "Well,  as  there  is  no 
time  to  lose,  the  first  thing  to  consider  is  the  sale.  Had 
there  better  be  any  reserve  ?  " 

'•  None,  I  should  say,  except  the  family  portraits,  and 
they  had  better  be  sent  to  Markland  Place." 

Up  to  this  point  in  the  conversation  I  sat  near  them 
silent  and  indifferent,  only  dimly  conscious  that  they 
were  discussing  some  question  respecting  my  future.  Of 
what  nature,  I  cared  little  to  know,  until  the  remark 
about  the  portraits  fell  on  my  ear;  then  I  understood 
what  they  were  about  to  do.  and  looked  aghast  from  one 
to  the  other,  horrified  at  what  seemed  to  me  a  cruel 
sacrilege,  while  my  surprise  and  grief  found  expression 
in  angry,  passionate  words. 


wgly,  "  Imdn't 
iiud  attfiid  to 

huiii      UH  80UII 

view  with  the 
paved  to  lake 
u  London  tht' 
ouch  tor  lliid- 

luH  to  me  you 
ir  flock.  Oue 
iir  sheep  won't 
our  cumte," 
it  at  all.  I'm 
I  am  anxiouH 

uncle  Lon-imer 

8  about  them," 
Hmile,  and  an 
as  there  is  no 
the  sale.     Had 

f  portraits,  and 
e.» 

sat  near  them 
ious  that  they 
;  my  future.  Of 
til  the  remark 
n  I  understood 
ighast  from  one 

to  me  a  cruel 
)uud  expression 


THK  HKAI)   WITH   THK   HLA(!K   HKHUKTTA.       27 

Htnrting  to  my  feet  ami  trembling  with  exeltcmMnt,  I 
cried  fmntii'.illy,  "Yon  don't  mean  to  do  that.  \'ou 
can't  be  mo  wicked  au  t  >  sell  tlicHc  beautiful  titinKS  that 
papa  was  all  hi.s  lil'u  collecting.  Tlicy  are  mine  now, 
and  I  tell  you  ^ou  shall  not  sell  them." 

"IIuMh,  husli,"  said  uncle  Lorrimer,  soothingly.  "It 
is  best  to  sell  them." 

"  What !  do  you  mean  to  sell  all  the  pictures  that  papa 
loved  so,  and  the  Kaphatd  too  ?  "  and,  (juite  overcome  by 
my  sorro.v  and  indignation,  I  sobbed  convulsively,  wring- 
ing my  iuuids  in  an  agony  of  entreaty. 

"Well,  well,"  said  Lord  Ilardmoor,  standing  over  me, 
and  looking  down  on  me  from  his  burly  height,  as 
though  I  were  a  small  black  lamb,  who  in  spiti'  of  its  rej>- 
utation  for  meekness  and  patience,  had  suddenly  asserted 
itself  in  a  very  unpleasant  manner.  "I  am  surprised! 
who  would  have  thought  the  boy  had  so  much  spirit ! 
something  of  a  Markland,  af  ar  all.  It's  curious  to  see 
the  characteristics  of  a  family  come  out  in  that  way. 
(Jentle  and  quiet  as  doves  until  something  touches  them ; 
then  they  are  as  tierce  as  birds  of  prey.  Now,  stop 
crying,  Felix,  my  boy ;  I  like  you  quite  as  well  for  show- 
ing a  little  temper,  but  it  is  no  use  to  rebel  against  those 
in  authority.  You  are  only  a  lad,  and  your  father  in 
his  wil]  has  named  your  uncle  and  me  your  joint  guar- 
dians, and  has  instructed  us  to  act  for  your  best  interest. 
Perhaps,  if  he  had  not  been  taken  away  so  suddenly,  he 
might  have  left  more  explicit  directions  about  tho  dis- 
posal of  his  personal  effects.  We,  your  uncle  and  my- 
self, consider  it  for  your  best  interest  to  sell  this  collec- 
tion  of  pictures  and  curiosities,  for  the  house  is  like  a 
museum,  and  they  would  be  of  no  use  to  you,  and  very 
unsuitable  for  a  plain  English  country  houses  neither 


28 


THE   8T0KY   OP   AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


are  you  rich  enough  to  liave  their  value  lying  idle,  simply 
because  your  father  had  the  peculiar  taste  to  spend  his 
time  and  money  collecting  them." 

"But  the  Raphael,"  I  cried,  almost  beside  myself. 
"You  must  not  sell  that,  papa  and  mama  both  loved 
it  so  much.  1  have  heard  papa  say  many  times  that  no 
amount  of  money  would  tempt  him  to  part  with  it." 

"  Pooh,  pooh,  my  boy,  the  Raphael  is  no  Raphael  at 
all.  That  was  one  of  your  father's  favorite  hobbies; 
he  was  always  finding' old  masters.  Every  antique 
copy  he  came  across  was  an  original.  This  picture  that 
he  thought  a  Raphael  is  in  all  probability  a  Giulio 
Romano,  or  it  may  be  a  copy  of  Perugino.  It  is  doubt- 
less of  the  school  of  Raphael  —  a  work  of  some  of  his 
pupils,  possibly." 

"  No,  no.    It  is  a  genuine  Raphael.     Papa  and  all 
the  great  artists  who  came  here  to  see  it   said    so. 
Among  papa's  papers  there  is  a  history  of  it,  and  how 
he  came  to  get  it.     He  has  told  me  so  many  a  time,  and 
I  know  if  he  could  speak  now  he  would  say  it  was  not 
to  be   sold.     Oh,  uncle,"  I  cried,  turning  to  the  Rev. 
Ernest,  who  walked  about  uneasily,  not  daring  to  inter- 
rupt the  free  torrent  of  Lord  Hardmoor's  authority, 
"only  keep  this  one  picture  and  I  will  not  complain  if 
you  sell  everything  else.     I  have  seen  it  ever  since  I 
can  remember ;  it  is  all  I  have  left  of  my  happy  days 
with  dear  papa,  and  mama  taught  me  to  love  it  when 
I  was  a  baby.    Papa  and  mama  spent  hours  looking  at 
it,  and  they  always  told  me  it  was  a  priceless  treasure, 
one  of  the  great  master's  early  paintings,  his  purest  and 
best  style,  and  of  more  value  than  anything  they  had. 
It  was  the  last  thing  he  ever  spoke  of,  the  last  story  he 
ever  told  me.    That  night,  O  uncle,  he  was  telling  me 


Ns'^. 


ilAST. 

ying  idle,  simply 
ste  to  spend  liis 

t  beside  myself. 
Liaraa  botli  loved 
ly  times  that  no 
lart  with  it." 
s  no  Eaphael  at 
favorite  hobbies; 
Every  antique 
rhis  picture  that 
bability  a  Giulio 
ino.  It  is  doubt- 
rk  of  some  of  his 

I.     Papa  and  all 
see  it   said    so. 
ry  of  it,  and  how 
many  a  time,  and 
lid  say  it  was  not 
■ning  to  the  Bev. 
•t  daring  to  inter- 
Imoor's  authority, 
il  not  complain  if 
in  it  ever  since  I 
of  my  happy  days 
e  to  love  it  when 
;  hours  looking  at 
priceless  treasure, 
igs,  his  purest  and 
inything  they  had. 
,  the  last  story  he 
he  was  telling  me 


THE  HKAD  WITH   THE   BLACK  BERRETTA. 


29 


the  history  of  the  boy  of  Urbino,  and  how  he  wished 
me  to  love  and  follow  Eaphael  when  I  became  an  artist. 
He  said  he  wanted  me  to  keep  the  picture  always  with 
me  to  teach  me  what  to  strive  for.  Let  me  keep  it  to 
remind  me  of  that  and  all  my  happy  childhood ;  with  it 
I  am  never  alone.  It  is  all  the  friend  I  want ;  let  me 
keep  it  and  I  will  try  to  be  very  good  and  patient,  and 
I  will  promise  not  to  trouble  you  with  my  crying." 

My  uncle  took  off  his  spectacles,  wiped  them  nervously, 
and  looked  at  Lord  Hardmoor  in  mute  appeal.    Poor 
little  man,  perhaps  he  had  not  a  bad  heart,  but  his  will 
was  entirely  dominated  by  that  of  his  inflexible  brother. 
"  It  is  of  no  use,  Lorrimer,"  said  Lord  Hardmoor,  in 
reply  to  the  look.     "  The  boy  is  foolish  and  stubborn  in 
this.     The  picture  can't  be  any  more  to  him  than  the 
hundred  other  pictures  in  these  rooms.     It  must  be  sold 
with  the  others,  and  as  for  its  being  a  Eaphael,  it's  all 
nonsense ;  connoisseurs  would  laugh  at  me  if  I,  a  well 
known  art  critic,  should  catalogue  it  as   such.    I  told 
Markland  years  ago,  when  I  wrote  my  article  on  ancient 
art,  that  it  was  a  Giulio  Eomano  or  an  Andrea  Man- 
tegna.     I  now  believe  it  to  be  the  latter,  and  under  that 
name  it  had  better  be  placed  in  the  catalogue  of  the  sale." 
There  was  nothing  more  to  be  said.    I  had  made  my 
last  appeal,  and  I  now  felt  myself  to  be  powerless  under 
the  iron  will  of  my  guardians.     I  swallowed  my  bitter 
tears  and  sobs,  too  proud  and  sensitive  to  let  them  see 
my  suffering,  and  determined  that  they  should  not  wit- 
ness another  outburst  of  emotion.    I  begged  that  I  might 
be  allowed  to  retire.     At  the  door  I  turned,  and,  hurling 
all  my  anger  at  them  in  my  words,  I  cried  passionately, 
"I  hate  you  both.    You  have  no  heart.     If  you  sell  my 
Eaphael,  when  I  am  a  man  and  can  do  as  I  like,  I  will 


f 


80 


THE  8TOKY    Or   AN    ENTHUSIAST. 


search  the  world  over  until  I  find  it,  and  then  I  will  buy 
it  back  if  it  takes  every  shilling  of  my  money." 

As  I  went  out  I  heard  my  uncle  Lorrimer  say,  in  a 
half -frightened  voice,  "Our  guardianship  will  be  no  sine- 
cure, brother  Hardmoor." 

I  went  to  my  father's  study.  Bettine  was  waiting  for 
me.  "Bettine,"  I  cried,  bursting  into  a  tempest  of 
weeping,  "  go  away  directly.  I  want  to  be  alone.  You 
need  not  wait  for  me.  To-morrow  I  am  going  to  Eng- 
land, and  I  shall  never  see  this  room  again.  I  want  to 
stay  here  a  long  time  alone  with  ray  Eaphael.  They  are 
going  to  sell  it.  Do  you  understand  what  that  means  ? 
They  are  going  to  take  this  picture,  that  seems  a  part  of 
papa  and  mama,  and  sell  it  to  any  one  who  will  buy  it, 
and  I  shall  never  see  it  again." 

"  Oh,  mon  Dieu!  the  English  savages  I"  cried  Bettine, 
indignantly.  "But  my  dear  boy  must  not  weep  so,  or 
he  will  be  too  ill  to  make  the  journey  to-morrow." 

"Oh,  Bettine  !  dear  Bettine  !  I  shall  not  be  ill,  I  shall 
not  die,  and  I  am  too  unhappy  to  live.  I  only  want  to 
be  alone.    When  I  am  tired  I  will  go  to  my  room." 

The  faithful  woman  left  me  reluctantly,  and  when  she 
was  gone  I  locked  the  door,  and,  stepping  upon  a  chair, 
so  that  my  face  would  be  on  a  level  with  the  pictured 
face,  I  pressed  my  lips  over  and  over  again  to  the  serene 
mouth  of  my  painted  friend,  and  when  I  had  caressed  it 
and  told  it  ray  sorrows  in  a  low  voice  mingled  with  sobs, 
I  saw  there  were  tears  rolling  down  its  face,  and,  child 
that  I  was,  I  fancied  the  picture  was  weeping  with  me, 
but  now  I  know  they  were  tears  from  my  own  eyes  that 
had  fallen  on  it. 

The  next  day,  when  all  was  ready,  and  I  was  about  to 
leave  my  home  forever,  I  went  for  the  last  time  into  the 


w 


lAST. 

then  I  will  buy 
iioney." 

rrinier  say,  in  a 
•  will  be  no  sine- 
was  waiting  for 
o  a  tempest  of 
be  alone.  You 
n  going  to  Eng- 
gain.  I  want  to 
phael.  They  are 
hat  that  means  ? 
,t  seems  a  part  of 
who  will  buy  it, 

i  I "  cried  Bettine, 
not  weep  so,  or 
>morrow." 
not  be  ill,  I  shall 
I  only  want  to 
0  my  room." 
bly,  and  when  she 
Ing  upon  a  chair, 
ivith  the  pictured 
gain  to  the  sereiie 
I  had  caressed  it 
lingled  with  sobs, 
;s  face,  and,  child 
iveeping  with  me, 
my  own  eyes  that 

,nd  I  was  about  to 
last  time  into  the 


THE  HEAD  WITH  THE  BLACK  BERKETTA.   31 

room  to  tiike  my  farewell  of  the  head  with  the  black 
herretta.  I  was  calm  now.  The  inevitable  had  come, 
and  I  knew  tears  were  useless.  With  a  still  anguish, 
impossible  to  describe,  I  looked  for  the  last  time  at  the 
face  whose  soft  eyes  seemed  to  follow  me  with  loving 
wistfuluess,  and,  kneeling  reverently  before  that  picture, 
which  was  to  influence  my  whole  destiny,  1  vowed  sol- 
emnly that  when  I  was  older  I  would  search  the  world 
over  until  I  found  it,  and  when  I  found  it,  I  would  get 
possession  of  it  if  it  were  possible. 

The  rapid  journey  in  the  diligence  from  Paris  to  Calais 
was  dreary  in  the  extreme.  It  was  a  cold,  stormy  day 
in  November.  The  rain  and  wind  beat  savagely  at  the 
carriage  windows,  a  heavy  gray  mist  hung  over  the  low 
lands.  There  was  nothing  to  interest  me  within  or  with- 
out. Lord  Hardmoor  slept  heavily  in  one  corner  of  the 
seat,  a  handkerchief  spread  over  his  face  and  his  limbs 
outstretched,  much  to  the  discomfort  of  the  passengers 
opposite.  My  uncle  Lorrimer  sat  upright  with  a  copy 
of  the  church  manual  in  liis  hand,  winking  and  blinking 
behind  his  spectacles,  while  I  sat  between  them  —  a  for- 
lorn figure,  my  heart  aching  intolerably,  my  head  throb- 
bing, and  my  eyes  hot  with  unshed  tears,  most  uncom- 
fortable in  a  new  suit  of  mourning  that  did  not  fit, 
my  feet  pinched  into  shoes  too  small  for  me,  and  a 
pin  in  the  back  of  my  collar  goading  my  neck  every 
time  I  turned  my  head ;  but  I  was  too  proud  to  com- 
plain, so  I  bore  my  suffering  in  silence,  scorning  to  ask 
relief  from  those  who  had  treated  me  so  cruelly. 

When,  at  last,  we  reached  Calais,  Lord  Hardmoor 
awoke  with  a  start,  and,  standing  up  to  speak  to  the 
guard,  trod  upon  my  cramped  feet  until  T  almost  cried 
with  pain,  but  I  made  no  sign.     I  had  appealed  to  him 


82  THE   STOKY   OF   AN   ENTHUSIAST. 

once,  with  all  my  childish  energy  of  soul,  and  he  ha.l 
been  deaf  to  my  piteous  prayer,  and  never  again  should 
he  know  th; ;.  he  had  power  to  hurt  me. 

When  I  went  on  board  the  packet  that  was  to  carry 
us  to  England,  and  saw,  for  the  first  time,  a  rough, 
stormy  sea,  a  dirty,  noisy  crowd  on  the  wet  deck,  and 
listened  to  the  loud  voices  of  the  English  sailors  as  they 
rushed  here  and  there  clumsily  and  boisterously  per- 
forming their  duties,  1  felt,  even  at  that  early  age,  that 
my  poetic  life  was  behind  me,  and  that  before  me  lay  a 
dreary,  practical  future,  which  must  be  met  with  all  the 
courage  that  I  possessed. 


[7BIAS1'. 


soul,  and  he  had 
lever  again  should 

B. 

that  was  to  carry 
irst  time,  a  rough, 
the  wet  deck,  and 
lish  sailors  as  they 
I  boisterously  per- 
;hat  early  age,  that 
at  before  me  lay  a 
be  met  with  all  the 


PART  II. 
DORETHEA. 


PART  II. 


DORETUEA. 


I  REMEMBER  but  little  of  the  passage  from  Calais  to 
Dover,  for  I  was  stupidly  sick,  and  lay  like  a  log  upon 
one  of  the  damp  seats  on  the  deck,  while  my  uncle  Lor- 
rimer,  pale  and  shivering,  leaned  over  the  railing,  vainly 
trying  to  keep  up  his  clerical  dignity  by  a  close  study  of 
the  angry  waves  crested  with  little  mountains  of  foam. 

Lord  Hardmoor,  subdued  for  once  into  humble  silence, 
buttoned  tightly  in  a  great-coat,  sat  moodily  nursing  his 
knees,  his  eyes  closed,  and  his  complexion  of  a  bluish 
gray.  In  their  own  misery  both  seemed  to  have  forgot- 
ten my  existence,  and  I  should  have  suffered  from  the 
cold  and  dampness,  if  a  kind-hearted  woman,  who  doubt- 
less thought  I  was  an  orphan  from  my  mourning  and 
the  neglect  with  which  I  was  treated,  had  not  folded  a 
thick  warm  shawl  over  me,  saying,  in  a  pitying  tone,  as 
she  did  so,  "Poor  little  lad,  are  you  all  alone  ?  " 

These  kind  words  opened  the  flood-gates  of  my  heart, 
and  I  wept  freely  under  the  shelter  of  her  plaid. 

In  the  coffee-room  at  Dover  my  uncle  bade  me  eat 
something,  but  I  could  not  swallow  a  mouthful.  Home- 
sickness and  sea-sickness  together  made  me  loathe  food, 
and,  in  fact,  everything  else.  I  pushed  away  the  plat© 
placed  before  me,  ai.  \  leane*'  Lack  in  my  chair,  trying 

35 


li 


;: 


86 


THB  STORY  OP   AN   KNTIIUarAST. 


tlu'ii  would 


heroically  to  repress  the  tears  that  now  and 
escape  and  roll  down  my  cheeks. 

At  last  Lord  Hardmoor  seemed  to  Temeinber  that  I 
existed,  and,  pushing  a  cup  of  coffee  toward  me,  he  said, 
peremptorily,  "Drink  that;  it  will  relieve  the  nausea." 
With  mechanical  obedience  I  raised  the  cup  to  my 
lips,  and,  my  tears  dropping  into  it,  swallowed  a  mouth- 
ful. It  was  very  hot,  and  I  was  too  timid  to  eject  it.  so 
I  held  it  in  my  blistering  mouth  until  it  cooled  and  then 
gulped  it  down  with  a  painful  effort.  I  could  take  no 
more,  and  begged  to  be  allowed  to  lie  on  one  of  the  sofas 
until  the  stage  started  for  London.  Again  my  good 
friend,  God  bless  her !  covered  me  closely  with  her  shawl, 
and  1  fell  asleep. 

I  remember  little  more  until  I  reached  Haddingham 
Rectory.  My  first  impression  there  was  of  a  large,  well 
lighted  room,  with  handsome  furniture  and  curtains,  and 
a  glowing  fire  in  a  grate  at  the  far  end.  Near  the  door, 
as  we  entered,  stood  a  small,  faded  woman,  dressed  in 
deep  mourning,  and  with  her  a  number  of  little  folk,  of 
various  ages  and  sizes.  I  had  never  in  my  life  associa- 
ted with  children,  and  this  unexpected  group  astonished 
me.  I  remember  I  thought  there  were  about  twenty,  but 
when  they  were  sorted  out  and  arranged  there  were  only 

nine.  t.       i-  a 

The  faded  little  woman  was  my  aunt  Ernestine,  ana 
the  nine  copies  of  her  and  my  uncle  were  my  cousins 
Lorrimer.  Before  I  was  noticed  my  aunt  and  the  chil- 
dren saluted  the  Rev.  Ernest  with  a  formal  kiss;  then 
my  aunt  drew  rar;  toward  her -for  I  hung  back  shyly, 
being  cold  and  only  half  awake.  As  she  stooped  to  kiss 
me,  I  saw  that  shie  was  weeping. 
The  sight  of  her  tears  and  the  loving  clasp  of  her  arms 


luarAST. 

ow  and  tlu-n  would 

to  Temember  that  I 
toward  me,  he  said, 
elieve  the  nausea." 
sed  the  cup  to  my 
swallowed  a  mouth- 
timid  to  eject  it,  so 
il  it  cooled  and  then 
t.  I  could  take  no 
3  on  one  of  the  sofas 
n.  Again  my  good 
jsely  with  her  shawl, 

?ached  TIaddingham 
was  of  a  large,  well 
ire  and  curtains,  and 
end.  Near  the  door, 
d  woman,  dressed  in 
ber  of  little  folk,  of 
r  in  my  life  associa- 
ted group  astonished 
jre  about  twenty,  but 
nged  there  were  only 

aunt  Ernestine,  and 
icle  were  ray  cousins 
ly  aunt  and  the  chil- 
i  a  formal  kiss ;  then 
•  I  hung  back  shyly, 
ts  she  stooped  to  kiss 


ring  clasp  of  her  arms 


TU)11KTIIKA. 


87 


were  too  much  for  my  tired,  sore  heart.  I  could  not 
speak,  but  clung  to  her,  sobbing  passionately.  For  a  few 
moments  she  held  me  closely  to  her  heart,  saying,  "  My 
poor  brotlier,  my  poor  brother."  Then  she  led  me  to  a 
sofa  and,  sitting  beside  me,  she  wiped  my  eyes  and 
soothed  me  tenderly,  trying  to  divert  me  witli  questions 
about  my  journey,  while  my  cousins  stood  near  and 
looked  on  with  quiet  curiosity. 

My  uncle  Lorrimer  was  giving  his  hat  and  coat  to  a 
servant,  and  Lord  Ilardmoor  was  clasping  and  kissing 
a  little  girl  of  about  seven  or  eight  years,  who  had 
suddenly  entered  the  room  by  another  door.  A  pretty 
child  in  a  white  frock  .and  blue  sash.  Her  features  were 
small  and  pale,  her  eyes  wide  and  blue,  and  her  hair  of  a 
beautiful  golden  color.  1  remember  I  thought  she 
looked  like  an  angel  in  some  old  picture  I  had  seen. 

"  Why  Dolly,  you  little  witch,  how  is  it  that  you  are 
here  ? "  I  heard  Lord  Hardmoor  ask,  when  he  had  re- 
leased her  from  a  very  fond  embrace. 

"  I  came  to  meet  you,  papa,"  replied  the  child,  with 
measured  precision.  "  Mama  said  you  would  stay  here 
all  night,  because  it  would  be  too  late  to  drive  over  to 
the  Hall,  so  she  allowed  Thompson  to  fetch  me  this  morn- 
ing, to  be  here  to  meet  you  when  you  came  with  the 
little  French  boy.  Is  not  aunt  Ernestine  good  to  allow 
us  all  to  sit  up.  Oh,  we  have  had  such  fun.  I  have 
been  dressed  in  a  black  gown,  and  Ernest  made  a  pulpit 
in  the  library  of  some  chairs,  and  I  have  been  preaching 
to  the  children,  just  as  uncle  docs,  and  they  almost  went 
to  sleep." 

Lord  Hardmoor  broke  into  a  hearty  laugh.  "  So  you 
think  that  fun,  do  you  ?  Well,  I  don't  believe  your  uncle 
does.    Oh,  you  sly  puss!  your  aunt  spoils  you  when 


88 


THR  8T0KY  OF  AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


you  come  liPve.     Now,  go  and  speak  to  the  French  boy, 
as  you  call  him." 

He  brought  the  little  girl  to  the  sofa,  where  I  was  still 
sitting,  and  said,  in  a  hard  tone,  "  Felix,  this  is  my  little 
daughter,  Dorethea.  I  hope  you  will  like  her  better  thau 
you  do  her  father." 

I  was  prepared  to  like  her  already.  She  had  inter- 
ested me,  and  my  cousins  had  not.  This  unkind  rebuke 
from  her  father  made  my  heart  swell  to  suffocation,  and 
the  ready  tears  started  again  to  my  eyes.  When  she  put 
her  little  soft  hand  in  mine,  and  said,  sweetly,  "  Cousin 
Felix,  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  and  I  am  very  sorry  your 
papa  is  dead,"  I  could  bear  no  more,  and,  in  spite  of  my- 
self, I  began  crying  again. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  looking  at  me  with  wide  won- 
dering eyes ;  then,  quietly  and  with  womanly  dignity,  she 
sat  beside  me,  and  smoothed  my  face  and  hair  with  a 
gentle,  loving  touch,  that  calmed  me  at  once. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  smiling  brightly,  "  you  feel  better, 
don't  you  ?  Mama  says  one  must  cry  sometimes,  and  it  is 
a  great  relief,  but  if  we  cry  too  much  it  will  make  us  ill. 
You  are  pale,  and  your  eyes  are  very  red,  so  I  think  you 
have  cried  enough.  Now,  you  must  come  with  me  into 
the  dining-room  and  see  what  a  pretty  supper  aunt  Er- 
nestine has  prepared.  And  in  the  centre  of  the  table  is 
a  big  cake  mama  sent  you  from  the  Hall.  Take  my 
hand  and  come  with  me.  May  we  not  go,  aunt,  and  have 
supper  ? " 

"Yes,  my  dear,"  replied  my  aunt.  "Felix  is  very 
tired.  After  he  has  eaten  something  he  must  go  to  bed, 
and  to-morrow  he  will  feel  better ;  then  you  can  all  get 
well  'acquainted,  and  be  very  happy  to;,'ether." 

"Oh!  we  are  acquainted  now,"  returned  the  little  maid. 


*       > 


II  AST. 

tlie  French  boy, 

where  I  was  still 

this  is  my  little 

:e  her  better  than 

She  had  inter- 
[S  unkind  rebuke 
)  suffocation,  and 
I.  When  she  put 
jweetly,  "Cousin 
very  sorry  your 
d,  in  spite  of  my- 

e  with  wide  won- 
lanly  dignity,  she 

and  hair  with  a 

once. 

'you  feel  better, 

imetimes,  and  it  is 

t  will  make  us  ill. 

sd,  so  I  think  you 

)me  with  me  into 

supper  aunt  Er- 
;re  of  the  table  is 

Hall.    Take  my 
go,  aunt,  and  have 

"Felix  is  very 
ie  must  go  to  bed, 
n  you  can  all  get 
;^ether." 
led  the  little  maid. 


DOUKTirKA. 


99 


"  I  like  him  ond  he  likes  me.  Come,  Felix."  And,  with 
a  pretty  air  of  apprdpriation,  she  held  out  her  hand. 
One  of  my  cousins  came  timidly  to  the  othei  side,  and, 
thus  escorted,  I  entered  the  dining-room,  where  a  Ijounti- 
ful  supper  was  spread  for  the  tired  travellers. 

The  day  had  begun  drearily,  but  it  was  ending  better 
than  I  dared  hope.  There  was  something  in  my  aunt's 
smile  that  was  like  my  father,  and  she  had  received  me 
with  such  kindness  that  my  heart  was  soothed  and  com- 
forted. At  table  I  sat  between  my  cousin  Walter  and 
Dorethea.  The  little  maiden  prattled  constantly,  while 
the  timid  boy  scarcely  sjjoke  a  word.  Still,  I  knew  he 
liked  me,  and  we  were  fast  friends  from  that  time. 

My  cousins,  as  it  was  very  late,  were  only  allowed  a 
light  supper.  Dorethea  seemed  to  know  just  what  she 
should  eat,  and  I  was  not  restricted  at  all,  only  when 
my  little  monitrcss  would  say,  "  Felix,  if  you  eat  that, 
you  will  have  bjid  dreams,"  or  "  Mama  says  that  is 
indigestible  at  night."  Not  acquainted  with  English 
food,  I  obeyed  her  strictly,  only  taking  what  she  ad- 
vised, and,  by  the  time  the  pleasant  meal  was  over,  I 
found  myself  wondering  how  I  could  be  so  cheerful. 
Life  seemed  brighter,  and  I  was  not  nearly  as  miserable 
as  I  had  been  in  the  coffee-room  at  Dover.. 

"The  boy  is  better  already,"  said  Lord  Havdmoor, 
looking  at  me  with  satisfaction.  "  I  have  not  seen  him 
eat  as  mrah  as  would  keep  a  mouse  alive  until  now. 
My  Dolly  is  a  little  witch  for  cheering  one  up.  When  I 
have  the  dumps,  she  is  bettur  than  sunshine  or  fresh  air. 
But,  come,  it  is  after  midnight,  and  time  my  little  maid 
was  in  bed.  Say  good-night  to  all,  and  go  to  your  nurse, 
my  dear." 

I  kissed  my  little  friend  very  fondly  as  she  went 


•< 


40 


THK   STOIIY   OK    AN    KNTIItrtlAHT. 


away,  shcw.k  luinds  .lutifully  with  my  u..cle,  ivuX  alm.mt, 
humbly  with  Uml  llunlumor  (as  h«  was  Dorotheas 
father,  1  waH  ashamed  a.i.l  s.-iry  that  I  had  shown  my 
avevsiou  so  phiinly),  embriveo.l  my  cousins  in  turn,  and 
then  uiy  aunt  took  mo  to  my  room,  where  I  was  joined 
by  Walt(fr,  whose  l)ed  I  was  to  share. 

After  wo  lia.l  retired,  and  I  had  almost  forgotten  my 
new  experiences  in  sleep,  my  aunt  came  softly  into  the 
room.  Loaning  over  me,  she  kissed  me  tenderly,  and 
said:  "My  dear,  you  must  look  ui)on  me  as  your 
mother,  and  from  this  night  I  shall  feel  that  I  have 

another  child."  .   ,  ii„ 

Half-asleep,  I  clasped  her  thin  hand  gratefully, 
thanked  her  drowsily,  and  then  drifted  away  into  the 
land  of  dreams,  where  I  was  with  my  father,  looking  at 
my  beloved  picture,  whose  pensive  eyes  followed  me,  as 
they  were  destined  to  do  all  my  life. 

II. 

I  SHOULD  like  to  describe  my  cousins  as  they 
appeared  to  me  the  next  morning,  but  as  they  take  no 
important  place  in  the  story  of  my  life,  I  will  only  men- 
tion those  near  my  own  age  who  played  their  small 
parts  on  the  narrow  stage  of  my  childish  joys  and  sor- 
rows First,  there  was  Clarence,  an  exact  copy  of  his 
father,  next  twins,  named  respectively  Ernest  and 
Helen,  then  Walter,  my  favorite,  and  after  him  the 
remaining  five,  in  pairs  and  singly,  to  the  youngest,  about 

three  years  old. 

In  the  clear  morning  light,  refreshed  by  sleep,  and 
my  eyes  free  from  tears,  they  all  appeared  plainer  and 
less  prepossessing.    My  first  sorrowful  impression  was 


rtlAHT. 

iHcle,  and  ivlmoHt 
I  wiiH  Dort'tht'ii's 
I  hiul  shown  my 
sins  in  turn,  iintl 
lero  I  was  joint'd 

lost  forgotten  my 
w  softly  into  the 
mo  tenderly,  and 
)on  me  as  your 
feel  that  I  have 

hand  gratefully, 
ted  away  into  the 

father,  looking  at 
38  followed  me,  aa 


DOIIKTMKA. 


41 


cousins  as  they 
it  as  they  take  no 
le,  I  will  only  men- 
played  their  small 
dish  joys  and  sor- 

exact  copy  of  his 
lively  Ernest  and 
ind  after  him  the 
the  youngest,  about 

shed  by  sleep,  and 
ipeared  plainer  and 
rful  impression  was 


that  my  aujit  lookeii  very  ill,  my  second  that  my  uncle 
Lorrimer,  weak  and  yiehling  though  he  app»iarod  to 
Lord  Ilardmoor,  exercised  a  pitileHS  tyranny  over  his 
family.  My  aunt  was  anxious  and  care-worn,  the  chil- 
dren cowed  and  timid,  and  the  only  really  bright  face  at 
the  break fast-tablo  was  Dorethea's,  who  sat  next  to  mo 
and  chatted  in  her  old-fashioned  way.  Hiie  told  me  of 
her  dolls  at  the  Hall,  of  her  pony  and  her  peacocks,  of 
the  fountain  and  grotto  idled  with  siiells,  and  many 
other  wonderful  things. 

"Are   there   many   pictures?"   I   asked,   turning  to 

Walter. 

"Oh,  yes  !  a  gallery  full  of  thera,"  he  replied,  shyly  ; 
"  men  in  armor  and  women  in  high  ruffs." 

"Irt   there    a    Jlaphael    among    them?"   I    incpiired, 

eagerly. 

"A  Kaphael !  I  don't  know.  What  is  a  Raphael  ?  " 
I  looked  at  him  in  silent  pity  and  wonder.  Could 
there  be  any  one,  even  a  child,  so  lamentably  ignorant 
as  never  to  have  heard  of  Kaphael.  I  was  so  disap- 
pointed in  Walter  that  I  could  not  answer  him.  So 
I   turned  to   Dorothea  and    asked    her    if    she    liked 

pictures. 

"  I  like  flowers  beet,"  she  replied,  her  mouth  full  of 

bread  and  butter. 

«  Flowers  are  prettier  than  pictures  ! "  Walter  agreed, 
not  in  the  least  abashed  at  my  ill  concealed  surprise. 
"  They  are  real  living  things,  and  God  makes  them  grow, 
while  it  is  only  men  who  make  pictures." 

"  But  flowers  fade  and  die,  and  pictures  last  forever 
—  at  least,  some  do  I "  I  returned,  earnestly.  "  And  the 
genius  that  creates  them  is  a  gift  direct  from  God." 

Walter  looked  puzzled,  and,  making  no  reply,  leanod 


-m 


42 


THK  8TOUY  OF   AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


forward  and  asked  Doretbea  if  he  should  take  her  to 
the  farm-yard  after  breakfast,  to  see  his  puppies. 

The  morning  meal  did  not  pass  off  so  pleasantly  as 
the  supper  had  the  night  before.  Uncle  Lorrimer 
reproved  Clarence  sharply  for  grinding  his  knife  on  his 
plate,  and  one  of  the  small  girls  upset  her  milk  in 
Helen's  lap,  and  was  sent  away  to  her  nurse  crying 
loudly.  My  aunt  looked  pale  and  worried.  Lord  Hard- 
moor  sipped  his  tea  with  a  wry  face,  and  advised  his 
brother  to  get  a  new  cook,  as  the  muffins  were  raw  and 
the  chops  dried  to  a  chip. 

Uncle  Lorrimer  glanced  reproachfully  at  my  aunt, 
and  apologized  to  his  lordship,  who  pushed  his  plate 
away  without  eating,  and  left  the  table,  saying  that  if 
they  would  excuse  him,  he  would  ride  over  to  the  Hall 
at  once,  as  he  wished  to  see  his  steward  early  on  some 
important  business.  He  kissed  Dorethea,  who  was  to 
follow  later  in  the  day,  and,  without  noticing  me,  went 
away,  with  a  curt  "  good-morning  "  to  my  aunt,  obsequi- 
ously followed  by  my  uncle. 

The  early  part  of  my  first  day  at  the  Rectory  passed 
pleasantly.  In  the  company  of  my  cousins  and  Dorethea, 
we  made  the  tour  of  the  farm-yard,  gardens,  and  dairy. 
It  was  all  new  to  me,  and  pleased  me  because  of  its 
novelty ;  but  the  noise  of  the  children,  their  senseless 
chatter,  sometimes  quarrelling,  sometimes  teasing, 
wearied  and  disgusted  me.  I  had  been  so  carefully 
nurtured,  so  tenderly  cared  for,  I  had  been  so  sur- 
rounded by  all  that  was  elegant,  refined,  and  quiet,  that 
the  contrast  with  this  rude,  commonplace  existence  robbed 
th-  homely  scene  of  what  little  attraction  it  might  other- 
"iso  have  had. 

"Come,"  I  said,  when  I  had  grown  tired  of  farm-yard 


IA8T. 

lid  take  her  to 
puppies, 
so  pleasantly  as 
[Jacle  Lorriiner 
his  knife  on  his 
iet  her  milk  in 
3r  nurse  crying 
ed.  Lord  Hard- 
and  advised  his 
IS  were  raw  and 

Uy  at  my  aunt, 
)ushed  his  plate 
e,  saying  that  if 
3ver  to  the  Hall 
•d  early  on  some 
hea,  who  was  to 
oticing  me,  went 
tny  aunt,  obsequi- 

e  Rectory  passed 
ins  and  Dorethea, 
irdens,  and  dairy, 
le  because  of  its 
n,  their  senseless 
netimes  teasing, 
jeen  so  carefully 
lad  been  so  sur- 
id,  and  quiet,  that 
!e  existence  robbed 
ion  it  might  other- 

;ired  of  farm-yard 


DORETHEA. 


48 


sights  and  sounds.     "  Let  us  go  into  the  liouse  and  look 

at  the  pictures." 

The  boys  opened  their  light  eyes  wide  with  surprise, 
and  all,  even  Walter,  scampered  off  to  the  duck-pond  to 
sail  their  boats,  while  Dorethea  said  she  would  rather 
watch  the  dairy-maid  make  curds.  In  honor  of  my  arri- 
val they  were  enjoying  a  holiday,  and  wandering  about 
the  house  was  not  at  all  to  their  taste. 

"Will  you  come,  Helen?"  I  asked,  feeling  very 
wretched  at  the  thought  of  spending  my  days  in  the 
company  of  theae  rude,  noisy  children,  ruder  and  noisier 
when  free  from  restraint  because  of  the  pitiless  curb 
kept  upon  them  when  in  the  presence  of  their  father. 

Helen  looked  lingeringly  toward  the  dairy,  where  the 
maid  was  busy  with  the  curds,  but  good-naturedly  turned 
with  me  toward  the  house. 

In  the  drawing-room  were  a  few  good  pictures,  among 
them  a  fine  copy  of  the  Sistine  Madonna,  a  Sir  Joshua, 
and  several  copies  after  Gainsborough  and  other  cele- 
brated English  artists ;  over  the  mantel  hung  a  portrait 
of  my  aunt  at  seventeen,  painted  by  Haydon,  a  sweet, 
fresh  face  of  no  remarkable  beauty,  but  interesting  for 
its  soft  color  and  gentle  expression ;  could  it  be  possible 
that  the  faded,  plain  woman  I  had  seen  at  the  breakfas1> 
table  was  the  original  of  the  pretty  picture  before jne  ? 
The  artist  had  beautified  her  unwarrantably,  or  else  she 
was  but  a  wreck  of  her  former  self.    Opposite,  between 
the  windows,  was  a  full-length  representation  of  her 
husband  in  his  clerical  robes,  his  long,  thm  hand  on  an 
open  book,  his  pale  eyes  a  little  less  ^^f  J' /^^^  ?^^^J: 
selfish  face  a  little  rounder  and  more  youthful,  but  still 
his  characteristics  were  there,  although  the  artist  had 
done  his  best  to  ennoble  his  subject. 


(MMHMMMW 


44 


THE   8TOBY   OP  AN  ENTHUSIAST. 


^'/ 


In  the  library  hung  a  very  fine  copy  of  cue  of  Land- 
seer's  pictures. 

"  There,"  said  Helen,  "  is  my  favorite.  I  like  it  better 
than  any  other,  because  I  can  understand  it.  I'm  so  fond 
of  dogs,  and  these  look  as  if  they  were  alive." 

While  we  were  before  the  picture  my  aunt  came  in, 
with  her  bonnet  on  and  a  basket  in  her  liand.  She 
looked  tired,  and  sighed  heavily  as  she  dropped  into  a 
chair. 

"Where  are  the  children?"  she  asked,  anxiously 
looking  at  Helen.  "  I  hope  tliey  have  not  been  in  the 
house ;  your  father  is  in  his  study,  and  you  know  he  does 
not  like  to  be  disturbed;  I  hope  you  have  been  very 
quiet,  my  dears." 

"Oh,  yes,  mama,"  replied  Helen;  "we  have  just 
walked  about  softly.    Felix  wanted  to  see  the  pictures." 

My  aunt  smiled,  as  though  it  were  an  effort,  and  said 
we  were  good  children ;  then  takinr  '^e  basket,  which  I 
thought  too  heavy  for  her,  she  we.it  '    \-Hy  out. 

"Poor  mama,"  said  Helen,  he.  .  following  her 
mother  wistfully,  "I  shall  be  so  ^^  ...  when  I  am  old 
enough  to  help  her  with  the  parish  work.  Aunt  Hard- 
moor  says  she  is  killing  herself  with  hard  work,  but 
papa  will  have  her  do  it  —  he  thinks  no  one  else  should 
take  her  place.  And,  then,  all  of  us  to  take  care  of.  I 
think  there  are  too  many  of  us,  don't  you,  and  besides," 
ghe  added,  in  a  low,  confidential  tone,  "  we  are  mostly 
naughty  children,  very  selfish  and  cross,  and  papa  scolds 
us  always,  even  when  we  don't  deserve  it.  Oh,  Felix ! 
I  would  not  live  here  for  anything  in  the  world  if  it  was 
not  my  home.  I  should  not  like  papa  to  know  it,  but 
really  I  am  always  glad  when  he  goes  away.  You  don't 
mind  being  teased,  do  you  ?  boys  don't  as  much  as  girls. 


SIA8T. 

of  oue  of  Land- 

.  I  like  it  bette;- 
id  it.  I'm  so  fond 
alive." 

uy  aunt  came  in, 

lier   hand.     She 

e  dropped  into  a 

asked,   anxiously 

not  been  in  the 

you  know  he  does 

I  have  been  very 

"we  have  just 
see  the  pictures." 
n  effort,  and  said 
e  basket,  which  I 
"cMy  out. 

c  following  her 
.  when  I  am  old 
ork.  Aunt  Hard- 
a  hard  work,  but 
o  one  else  should 

take  care  of.  I 
i^ou,  and  besides," 
,  "  we  arc  mostly 
s,  and  papa  scolds 
fe  it.  Oh,  Felix  ! 
he  world  if  it  was 
la  to  know  it,  but 
away.  You  don't 
;  as  much  as  girls. 


\y' 


DORETHEA. 


45 


Well,  when  papa  is  cross,  and  "Walter  sulks,  and  Clar- 
ence torments  you,  you  can  run  away  and  go  to  the 
Hall.  Aunt  Hardmoor  is  so  nice,  ever  so  much  nicer 
than  uncle  Hardmoor;  but  I  must  go  now,  and  have  my 
hair  brushed  and  a  clean  frock  on  for  lunch."  Then  she 
put  up  her  plain  little  face  for  a  kiss,  and  ran  away, 
leaving  me  alone  in  the  dimly  lighted  room. 

I  stood  looking  blankly  at  the  door  after  my  cousin 
left  me.  Her  awful  disclosures  appalled  me,  and  I  felt 
as  much  alone  in  that  ill  ordered  household  as  though 
I  were  on  a  rock  in  mid-ocean.  .  Not  knowing  how  to 
bear  my  trouble  with  silent  endurance,  I  threw  my- 
self into  a  window-seat,  and,  covering  my  face,  I  cried 
bitterly. 

Presently  I  felt  a  timid  hand  on  my  shoulder, 
and,  looking  up,  I  saw  Walter  standing  over  me. 

"  Don't  cry,  don't !  "  he  said,  hurriedly.  "  It  hurts  me 
to  see  you  cry.  Don't  be  so  down-hearted ;  when  you  get 
used  to  it,  it  won't  seem  so  bad.  We  all  mean  to  be  good 
to  you ;  even  Clarence  says  he  won't  tease  you.  So,  now, 
cheer  up  and  dry  your  eyes.  Mama  sent  me  to  fetch 
you  to  lunch,  and  after  we  shall  go  for  a  walk,  and  I'll 
show  you  a  stream  where  there  are  lots  of  fish,  and  an 
old  mill-pond  where  we  boys  have  no  end  of  fun  swim- 
ming when  the  weather  is  warm,  and,  beside,  from  the 
hill  you  can  see  the  Hall,  miles  and  miles  away  across 
the  moor.  Mama  says  we  shall  go  there  soon  and  pass 
the  day  with  Dorethea." 

This  last  assurance  comforted  me  somewhat,  and, 
wiping  my  eyes,  I  allowed  Walter  to  lead  me  to  the 
dining-room,  where  my  aunt,  looking  very  tired,  was 
cutting  bread  and  butter  for  the  whole  brood. 

After  making  a  pretence  of  eating  the  food  my  aunt 


46 


THE  8TOUY  OV   AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


helped  me  to,  I  said  good-by  to  Dorethea,  and  went 
away  with  the  three  eUlest  boys  for  a  walk. 

On  that  occasion  they  were  very  kind  to  me,  doing  all 
in  their  power  to  amuse  me  and  to  prevent  me  from 
brooding  over  my  sorrow.  But  as  night  came  on  and 
we  returned  in  the  twilight  to  the  house  that  could 
never  be  my  home,  the  full  sense  of  my  loss  came  over 
me,  and  I  missed  my  father  as  I  never  had  before.  That 
hour  was  always  passed  with  him,  and  to  me  it  was  the 
most  delightful  hour  of  the  day.  Only  a  week  before 
I  sat  at  his  side  in  the  pleasant  study,  the  glowing  fire, 
the  soft  lamp-light,  and  the  earnest  eyes  of  my  beloved 
picture,  making  the  room  radiant.  Now  how  desolate 
I  felt,  in  the  chilly  English  twilight,  on  the  lonesome 
moors,  and  my  father  in  his  grave,  my  home  gone  for- 
ever, and  the  picture  that  was  so  much  to  me  taken 
from  me  and  perhaps  even  now  in  the  possession  of  stran- 
gers, who  could  never  love  it  as  I  had.  It  was  not  until 
long  after,  that  I  underatood  the  mysterious  bond 
between  me  and  it,  but  without  that  knowledge  it 
seemed  a  part  of  me,  a  living  thing,  that  must  miss 
me  and  mourn  for  me  even  as  I  did  for  it. 

All  these  thoughts  crowded  upon  me  with  such 
force  that  it  seemed  as  though  my  heart  would  break 
under  its  load  of  grief. 

On  entering  the  house,  I  looked  around  for  my  aunt. 
«  She  is  always  in  the  nursery  at  this  time,"  said  Helen, 
and,  following  her  directions,  I  found  the  pale,  weary 
woman  busily  plying  her  needle,  a  basket  of  children's 
clothing  beside  her,  and  a  pile  of  little  stockings  on  the 
table.  She  looked  up  and  smiled  a  gentle  welcome  as  I 
entered. 

"May  I  come  and  sit  with  you,  aunt  ? "  I  asked,  as  I 


UAST. 

ethea,  and  went 
alk. 

to  me,  doing  all 
)revent  me  from 
;ht  came  on  and 
house  that  could 
y  loss  came  over 
lad  before.  That 
to  me  it  was  the 
ly  a  week  before 

the  glowing  fire, 
js  of  my  beloved 
ow  how  desolate 
on  the  lonesome 
f  home  gone  for- 
uch  to  me  taken 
>ssession  of  stran- 

It  was  not  until 
mysterious  bond 
at  knowledge  it 
,  that  must  miss 
for  it. 

me  with    such 
eart  would  break 

and  for  my  aunt, 
ime,"  said  Helen, 
I  the  pale,  weary 
sket  of  children's 
stockings  on  the 
itle  welcome  as  I 

? "  I  asked,  as  I 


DORETHEA. 


47 


drew  a  low  stool  to  her  feet ;  "  I  want  to  talk  with  you 

about  papa." 

"Certainly,  my  dear;  I  am  glad  you  have  come  now. 
Nurse  is  giving  the  little  ones  their  supper,  and  we  can 
have  a  quiet  hour.  Sit  here  and  tell  me  about  your 
father ;  but,  my  child,  you  must  be  calm.  This  passion- 
ate grief  will  kill  you."  ,.    .  ,  • 

I  was  weeping  my  heart  dry,  with  my  face  buried  m 
her  lap,  while  her  gentle  hand  caressed  me  with  a  lin- 
gering, motherly  touch.  «0h,  aunt,"  I  cried,  «if  I  can 
only  talk  to  vou  sometimes  about  him.  I  loved  him  so ; 
he  was  so  good,  and  it  was  so  sudden.  Now  I  am  just 
beginning  to  feel  that  he  is  gone  forever." 

"My  poor  boy,  my  poor  child,  come  to  me  when  you 
need  me.  I  will  always  listen  to  you.  I  too  love  to 
talk  of  him.  He  was  very  dear  to  me ;  although  I  have 
seen  him  but  little  for  years,  I  loved  him  deeply.  You 
are  his  chiM.  and  with  my  own  you  are  folded  close  to 
my  heart.  Awhile  I  live,  you  shall  never  need  sympathy 
and  love.  Come  to  me  at  any  time,  freely,  and  tell  me 
all  your  troubles."  Then  she  lifted  my  head  and  kissed 
me  while  her  hot  tears  rained  on  my  face. 

Calmed  and  encouraged  by  her  kindness,  with  my 
hands  folded  in  hers  and  her  gentle  eyes  looking  love 
into  my  sore  heart,  I  poured  out  my  sorrows  in  one 
burst  of  confidence -telling  her  of  the  other  loss  that 
was  grieving  me,  of  which  she  knew  nothing.     "If  I 
could  only  have  brought  it  with  me,  I  should  have  been 
contented,"  I  repeated  over  and  over;  "next  to  papa,  1 
loved  it  better  than  anything  in  the  world.    It  is  more 
than  a  picture  to  me.    It  is  like  a  brother,  a  friend,  and 
I  feel  always  here,"  laying  my  hand  on  ray  heajt,  "as  if 
something  were  drawing  me  to  it,  as  if  I  could  not  live 
without  it." 


(Hamtft-WMiwiw-i'"''-""  i.'~.«w«»wWB 


mmm:,.  <'v.mai*^' 


48 


THE  STORY   OF   AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


"How  strange,"  said  my  aunt,  iimsingly,  "that  you 
should  have  such  a  feeling  for  a  picture.  I  can't  under- 
stand it,  and  you  must  not  be  surprised,  my  dear  boy,  that 
others  cannot.  To  practical,  wo.ldly-uiinded  people,  it 
might  seem  morbid,  unnatural,  but  s'r.ce  you  feel  so 
about  it,  it  was  cruel  to  deprive  you  of  it;  but  you 
must  try  to  think  that  your  uncle  and  Lord  Hardmoor 
acted  for  the  best.  Do  not  blame  them  too  severely 
because  they  erred  on  the  side  of  prudence  and  reason, 
and  try  to  look  upon  them  as  your  friends." 

I  understood  my  aunt's  desire  to  put  their  cruel  act 
in  the  best  possible  light.  She  saw  that  by  opposing 
them  I  was  preparing  serious  trouble  for  my  future. 
Improving  the  opportunity  that  this  conversation  gave 
her,  she  spoke  tendei'ly  and  wisely  to  me  of  my  duty  to 
the  guardians  my  father  had  himself  selected  for  me, 
and  urged  me  to  come  to  her  with  every  trouble,  saying 
that  I  could  trust  fully  to  her  sympathy  and  affection. 

That  hour's  talk,  heart  to  heart,  did  me  more  good 
than  I  knew.  "  We  can  help  each  other,"  she  said  as 
she  kissed  me  and  sent  me  to  the  drawing-room,  where 
my  cousins,  their  father  being  absent,  were  engaged  in 
a  noisy  game. 


III. 

One  day  passed  very  like  another  at  the  Rectory.  I 
saw  but  little  of  my  uncle.  He  was  either  in  his  study 
or  visiting  among  his  parishioners,  with  whom  he  was 
considered  a  self-sacrificing,  faithful  laborer  in  his 
Master's  vineyard,  as  well  as  a  devoted  husband  and 
father. 

My  three  eldest  cousins,  Clarence,  Ernest,  and  Walter, 


31AST. 

Ugly,  "that  you 
.  I  can't  iiuder- 
my  dear  boy,  that 
inded  people,  it 
r.ce  you  feel  so 
I  of  it;  but  you 
Lord  Hardmoor 
era  too  severely 
lence  and  reason, 
ds." 

;  their  cruel  act 
hat  by  opposing 
for  my  future. 
)nversation  gave 
le  of  my  duty  to 
selected  for  me, 
y  trouble,  saying 
f  and  affection, 
d  me  more  good 
er,"  she  said  as 
i^ing-room,  where 
were  engaged  in 


the  Rectory.  I 
her  in  his  study 
th  whom  he  was 

laborer  in  his 
;ed  husband  and 

nest,  and  Walter, 


DOUETHEA. 


49 


went  every  day  to  study  with  the  curate,  who  lived 
some  three  miles  from  the  Rectory.  My  uncle's  parish 
was  large,  and  there  was  a  small  chapel  surrounded  by  a 
little  village  called  East  Haddingham,  which  formed  a 
part  of  the  Hardmoor  estate.  This  hamlet  was  in 
charge  of  the  curate,  who,  while  he  was  caring  for  the 
spiritual  welfare  of  that  portion  of  my  uncle's  flock,  was 
also  devoting  himself   to  the  education  of  my  three 

cousins. 

As  I  was  rather  delicate,  and  the  distance  somewhat 
long  for  a  city -bred  boy,  my  uncle  thought  it  best  that 
I  should  remain  at  home  and  study  under  the  governess, 
with  Helen  and  the  younger  children.  This  was  not  at 
all  an  injudicious  arrangement,  as  I  was  not  as  far  ad- 
vanced  in  ordinary  studies  as  most  boys  of  my  age. 

Day  after  day  I  went  through  my  English  lessons, 
mechanically,  always  longing  for  ray  mother  tongue, 
associated  as  it  was  with  all  that  was  brightest  m  my 
life.  The  governess  was  a  kind-hearted  woman  who 
had  lived  abroad  during  her  youth,  where  she  had 
learned  several  languages  uncommonly  well.  Her  excel- 
lent French  was  a  great  resource  to  me,  as  she  often 
talked  with  me,  and  allowed  me  to  read  my  favorite 
books  to  my  cousins,  that  their  accent  raight  be  ira- 
proved  by  raiue,  which,  she  said,  was  very  elegant.  At 
such  tiraes  I  was  quite  happy,  and  I  am  sure  she  always 
found  me  docile  and  obedient. 

Another  great  pleasure  was  the  drawing  lesson.s  which 
she  gave  us  regularly,  although  it  was  unnecessary  for 
me  to  repeat  the  rudiments,  which  I  had  already  studied 
with  my  father.  I  nevertheless  went  over  them  faith- 
fully, niuch  uo  her  surprise  at  my  readiness  in  drawing 
circles,  lii.es,  and  angles  to  perfection. 


*mm 


BMMMtl 


HIMOW 


60 


TUB   STORY   OF   AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


After  a  few  months  I  became  weary  of  the  monotony 
of  copying,  and  determined  to  strike  out  a  new  path  for 
myself.     When  my  lessons  were  over  I  hasten  2d  to  my 


room. 


and  there,  with  blocks,  books,  stones,  sticks, 


m 


fact  anything  that  I  could  arrange  in  groups,  I  began 
to  study  from  objects.  So  fascinated  was  I  with  this 
new  experience  that  very  often  I  forgot  to  appear  at  my 
meals,  and  sometimes  even  neglected  the  hours  that 
were  set  apart  for  family  devotion,  besides  applying 
myself  closely  when  I  should  have  been  taking  my  daily 

exercise. 

Owing  to  my  excitable  nervous  organization,  such  con- 
stant study  injured  my  health,  and  I  became  pale  and 
thin  to  an  alarming  degree.     My  aunt  gently  remonstrar 
ted  with  me,  and  my  uncle  positively  forbade  me  wast- 
ing my  time  with  such  nonsense.     I  now  knew  that  it 
was  owing  to  my  aunt's  intercession  that  my  disobe- 
dience in  that  matter  was  not  punished  in  the  beginning. 
I  would  have  willingly  relinquished  this  favorite  pur- 
suit had  it  been  only  an  amusement.    But  it  was  more. 
It  was  a  duty  which  I  sincerely  believed  I  owed  to  my 
dead  father  as  well  as  to  myself.     Something  within  me 
always  urged  me  on.     A  voice  unheard  save  by  myself 
repeated  over  and  over  the  memorable    words  of  M. 
Gerard:  "  Begin  early  :  train  the-eye  with  the  mind." 

After  working  for  some  time  with  charcoal,  crayon, 
and  su'jh  mediums,  I  began  to  feel  the  need  of  color  to 
perfect  my  designs.  Seeing  in  the  window  of  a  shop  in 
the  village  a  lot  of  Winsor  &  Newton's  water-colors, 
completely  fitted  with  all  the  apparatus  for  drawing,  I 
resolved,  by  saving  my  small  allowance  of  pocket-money, 
to  become  its  possessor.  Frequently  going  to  look  at  it, 
with  a  foretaste  of  the  pleasure  in  store,  I  made  the  ao- 


AST. 

the  monotony 
a  new  path  for 
tiasteiisd  to  my 
)ne8,  sticks,  in 
roups,  I  began 
ras  I  with  this 
3  appear  at  iny 
;he  hours  that 
isides  applying 
taking  my  daily 

ation,  such  con- 
jcarae  pale  and 
ntly  remonstra- 
•rbade  me  wast- 
w  knew  that  it 
ihat  my  disobe- 
n  the  beginning, 
lis  favorite  pur- 
ut  it  was  more. 
I  I  owed  to  my 
thing  within  me 
save  by  myself 
e    words  of  M. 
th  the  mind." 
iharcoal,  crayon, 
need  of  color  to 
low  of  a  shop  in 
n's  water-colors, 
s  for  drawing,  I 
af  pocket-money, 
ing  to  look  at  it, 
B.  I  made  the  ao* 


DOUKTHKA. 


51 


quaintance  of  the  shopkeeper's  wife,  who  at  one  time 
had  been  a  maid  in  a  family  living  abroad.  In  France 
she  had  picked  up  something  of  the  language,  and  she 
wa^  always  very  civil  to  me,  and  never  too  busy  to  take 
out  my  coveted  treasure  to  discuss  with  me  its  numerous 

merits.  .    . 

Fearful  lest  I  should  spend  my  money  if  I  kept  it  m 
my  possession,  every  month,  as  soon  as  I  receivad  it,  I 
ran  to  the  shop  with  it,  and  saw  the  woman  count  it 
and  put  it  aside  in  a  little  box,  which  she  called  my 

bank.  .1     V 

Many  times  before  I  had  entirely  paid  for  it,  she 
urged  me  to  take  it,  saying  she  was  not  afraid  to  trust 
so  tine  a  little  gentleman  for  the  remainder.  But  I  was 
too  proud  to  get  in  debt;  therefore  the  box  remained  in 
the  window  until  I  had  paid  the  last  shilling  and  took 
it  away  in  triumph.  Consequently,  it  was  valued  in 
proportion  to  the  sacrilice  it  had  cost  me,  and  I  am  sure 
I  was  never  happier  than  on  that  day  when,  my  lessons 
over,  I  hurried  away  to  my  room  to  make  my  first  draw- 
ing in  colors. 

For  some  days  I  could  not  bear  to  leave  my  new  treas- 
ure. At  early  dawn  I  was  at  work,  and  the  last  ray  of 
sunlight  that  entered  my  little  room  found  me  bending 
over  my  drawing  entranced,  unmindful  of  eveiything 
save  my  delightful  occupation.  Walter  complained  be- 
cause I  would  not  walk  with  him.  Clarence  and  Ernest 
teased  me  incessantly,  asking  me  when  my  great  picture 
was  to  be  exhibited.  Helen  pouted  because  I  would  not 
read  French  with  her,  and  even  the  governess  reproved 
me  for  missing  my  lessons,  and  my  aunt  was  anxious 
about  my  pale  face  and  loss  of  appetite.  But  I  lived  a 
life  apart  from  my  surroundings.    I  was  deaf  to  all  but 


i>M»-«>W»MU»*i«"'^g"--  "  ■niwuin'iumB,«.^-^-"»«'"-'i'. '>■''»»«'»■«'«'■  "■'  -i'*''""-  ~.ar.' 


52 


THK  8TOKY   OF   AN   RNTHUSFAST. 


the  inner  voioo,  blind  to  all  but  tho  beautiful  visions 
that  urged  mo  onward.  Shut  iu  my  room,  away  from 
iny  uncongenial  environment,  I  was  in  a  world  of  my 
own,  an  ideal  world,  that  consisted  of  my  own  fanciful 
dreams,  a  few  crude  sketches,  and  a  box  of  Winsor  & 
Newton's  water  colors. 

My  aunt's  birthday  was  near,  and  the  children  were 
secretly  preparing  their  presents  for  that  occasion,  when 
I  was  possessed  with  the  wish  to  surprise  her  with  a 
picture  of  my  own  painting.  I  was  very  shy  about  niy 
drawings,  and  usually  concealed  them  as  soon  as  they 
were  finished.  This  was  to  be  kept  a  profound  secret 
from  all  except  Walter,  whose  room  I  shared ;  therefore 
it  was  necessary  to  take  him  into  my  confidence.  I 
tried  to  interest  him  in  assisting  me  to  select  a  subject 
that  would  please  my  aunt,  but  Walter,  although  a  good 
boy,  and  my  favorite,  had  no  artistic  perception. 

"  If  I  could  only  see  Dorethea,"  I  said  to  him,  "  she 
could  tell  me  just  what  aunt  likes  best." 

Happily  for  me,  in  the  midst  of  my  indecision,  the 
little  maid  came  to  make  her  periodical  visit.  I  had 
seen  but  little  of  her  in  the  almost  two  years  that  I  had 
been  at  the  Rectory.  Twice  a  year  we  were  invited  to 
pass  a  few  days  at  Hardmoor  Hall,  and  at  about  the 
same  stated  periods  Dorethea  came  to  visit  her  cousins. 
These  visits  were  eras  in  my  life.  I  counted  everything 
either  from  our  visit  to  Dorethea,  or  Dorothea's  visit  to 
us,  and  now,  when  she  came  just  in  time  to  assist  me  in 
such  an  important  matter,  my  delight  was  boundless. 
Embracing  her  heartily,  I  whispered  that  I  had  some- 
thing to  tell  her  if  she  could  come  into  the  library  alone 
after  lunch. 

Curious  to  know  my  secret,  the  clever  child  soon  found 


AST. 

sautiful  visions 
ora,  away  from 
a  world  of  my 
ly  own  fanciful 
X  of  Winsor  & 

i  children  were 
;  occasion,  when 
rise  her  with  a 
y  shy  about  niy 
us  soon  as  they 
profound  secret 
lared;  therefore 
Y  confidence.  I 
select  a  subject 
although  a  good 
•ception. 
id  to  him,  "she 

'  indecision,  the 
sal  visit.  I  had 
years  that  I  had 
were  invited  to 
id  at  about  the 
'isit  her  cousins, 
mted  everything 
>rethea's  visit  to 
B  to  assist  me  in 
;  was  boundless, 
lat  I  had  some- 
the  library  alone 

child  soon  found 


inmiCTHKA. 


68 


I 


had  closed  the  door  against 
my  drawings,  ami  told  her  of 


an  opportunity.     When 

intrusion,  1  showed  lu-r 

my  desire  to  present  my  aunt  with  a  picture  on  her 

birthday. 

"  But  1  don't  know  in  the  least  what  to  jiaiiit,"  I  said, 
anxiously.  "  I  want  to  make  a  picture  of  something  she 
is  very  fond  of.  Dorethea,  do  you  know  of  anything 
that  would  please  her  — that  she  particularly  likes?" 

"Beggars  and  sick  children,"  returned  the  little  maid, 
with  a  mischievous  laugh. 

"  Oh !  I  can't  paint  them.  I  have  never  tried  to  do  a 
face,  but  I  would  like  to  try  yours  some  time,  if  you  will 

let  me." 

Dorethea  shook  her  head,  and  replied  that  she  was 
sure  she  could  never  keep  quiet,  but  if  I  wished  it  she 
would  try.  Then  she  put  her  tinger  on  her  pretty  lip, 
and  fell  to  thinking  of  what  our  aunt  would  like  best. 

« Oh,  I  know ! "  at  last  she  exclaimed,  brightly.  "  Your 
flowers  are  prettier  than  anything  else.  You  must  paint 
her  some  flowers,  primroses  —  she  is  very  fond  of  them. 
I  have  heard  her  say  so.  I  think  there  are  still  some  in 
the  shady  part  of  the  woods.  When  we  go  to  walk,  we 
will  search  for  them." 

My  aunt  was  very  much  pleased  when  I  proposed  a 
ramble,  and  told  us  not  to  hasten,  as  I  had  not  been  out 
for  a  number  of  days. 

On  our  way  through  the  wood  path  we  met  the  boys 
returning  from  their  lessons.  Clarence  took  off  his 
cap,  and  with  a  low  bow  stood  on  one  side,  saying  mock- 
ingly :  "  Make  room  for  the  great  artist." 

"  Oh,  boys !  don't  you  know  why  Felix  is  out  to-day  ? 
It  is  because  Dorethea  is  with  us  1 "  cried  Helen,  spite- 
fully. 


■MM 


64 


TIIK  HTOUY  (»K   AN    KNTIIUSIAHT. 


"Yes;  that  must  l)o  the  reaHoii,"  said  Ernes*,;  "for 
I've  begKod  him  to  walk  with  uw  this  hist  month,  and  I 
coidd  not  drag  him  away  from  his  bits  of  paiMU-  and  duuby 
ccdors." 

"Dorothea!  how  charming!  I  an)  jeiihnis," and  Chironco 
ran  back  to  give  the  glittering  curls  a  mischievous  little 
pull. 

"  You  great  rude  boys  ! "  cried  Dorethea,  in  a  sharp, 
high  tone,  while  her  face  flushed  a  wild-rose  tint.  "Yon 
should  be  a;  hamed  to  tease  Felix,  lie  is  much  cleverer 
than  you  are,  and  I  like  him  a  thousand  times  better 
than  I  do  you  ! "  And  the  little  maid  turned  her  back 
upon  them,  and  walked  away  indignant. 

Although  I  made  no  reply  to  their  jests,  I  was  hot 
with  anger,  and  a  tlusli  of  mortified  vanity  reddened  my 
face.  I  could  not  endure  to  be  ridiculed  in  the  presence 
of  Dorethea. 

When  the  boys  had  gone  on  their  way,  the  dear 
child  put  her  hand  in  mine,  and  said,  sweetly  :  "  Don't 
mind  them,  Felix.  It  is  hateful  in  them.  They  are  only 
jealous  because  I  like  you  best." 

Dear  little  comforter!  My  heart  was  light  in  a 
moment.  Among  the  few  pleasant  memories  of  those 
days,  that  scene  comes  before  me  bright  with  the  glow- 
ing tints  of  youth  and  hope.  Now  that  I  am  so  far  from 
it  all,  I  love  to  close  my  eyes,  and  look  backward  down  a 
long  vista  of  forest-trees  flecked  with  summer  sunlight, 
an  unbroken  path  green  with  soft,  damp  moss,  a  lovely 
child,  with  golden  hair  and  flushed,  eager  face,  darting 
here  and  there  among  the  shadows  to  pluck  the  prim- 
roses that  were  to  be  such  a  fatal  gift  for  me. 

Some  years  ago  such  a  picture  hung  in  one  of  the 
rooms  of  the  Royal  Academy.    Those  who  passed  stopped 


anMiii»iiito»w'M«i*»t«"»-  ■ 


tAHT. 

.1  Eriuis^;  "for 
it  month,  atul  I 
paper  and  diuiby 

18,"  and  Claronco 
ischiovous  little 

liua,  in  a  8luir|>, 
ro80  tint.  "You 
is  much  clftvovor 
nd  times  better 
turned  her  back 

josts,  I  wa8  hot 
ity  reddened  my 
I  in  the  presence 

•  way,  the  dear 
iwoetly  :  "  Don't 
I.    They  are  only 

was  light  in  a 
amories  of  those 
t  with  the  glow- 
I  am  so  far  from 
backward  down  a 
mmmer  sunlight, 
,p  moss,  a  lovely 
iger  face,  darting 
pluck  the  prim- 
or  me. 

ig  in  one  of  the 
ho  passed  stopped 


noKKTIIKA. 


S6 


but  a  moment  to  notiee  its  (juiot  beauty.  It  was  a  mem- 
ory of  youth,  a  memory  of  that  day  of  unclouded  joy 
and  expectation. 

When  we  returned  home,  wo  were  laden  with  tangled 
vines,  moss,  and  primroses,  some  of  which  I  secretly 
conveyed  to  my  room,  concealed  in  a  basin,  and  covered 
with  a  wet  towel  so  that  they  would  be  fresh  for  my' 
work  at  early  dawn. 

IV. 

Thr  next  morning,  as  soon  as  I  could  see,  I  was  up 
and  at  my  pleasant  task.     I  sketched  a  sheet  of  paper 
and  washed  in  a  graceful  tangle  of  vines  and  grass  for  a 
background,  keeping  it  low  in  tone  and  vague  in  outline. 
My  foreground  of  primroses  I  drew  with  great  care  and 
delicacy,  imitating  what  1  saw  in  a  thoroughly  realistic 
manner.     There  was  no  great  breadth  or  power  in  my 
little  study,  but  there  was  the  truth  which  I  had  tried 
to  express.     It  was  the  first  thing  I  had  done  that  at 
all  approached  the  ideal  I  had  been  striving  after,  and 
I    can    truly    say    that   no    later    effort   wiis  as    dear 
to  me  ae  that  simple  sketch  of  wild-flowers.     I  jjlaced 
it  in  many  different  lights,  I  looked  at  it  from  every 
point  of  view,  I  was  delighted  to  touch  and  retouch  it. 
I  imagined  over  and  over  my  aunt's  surprise  and  pleas- 
ure, and  Dorethea's  appreciation,  and  I  even  thought 
that  when  my  uncle  saw  it  he  would  be  so  impressed 
with  its  excellence  that  he  would  be  reconciled  to  my 
following  the  profession  ho  now   disapproved  of.     In 
short,  I  looked  on  it  as  the  arbiter  of  my  fate,  the  step- 
ping-stone to  fame  and  glory. 
Walter  was  my  only  critic,  and  he  accorded  it  but 


'  imBi'imjMKHi^- 


..niir mtimmmiKmimm 


mMmi 


\ 


I      .   _' 


56  THE  8T0RY   OF  AN   ENTHUSIAST. 

faint  praise  ;  however,  that  did  not  discourage  me.  Con- 
fident of  my  own  power,  elated  at  my  success,  I  thought 
him  stupidly  insensible  to  its  merits. 

My  aunt  had  been  ill  for  several  days,  and  I  had  not 
seen  her.     One  evening,  she  sent  for  me  to  come  to  her 
room.     It  was  the  eve  of  her  birthday.     1  went  in  softly, 
■  much  surprised  at  seeing  her  so  ill. 

When  slie  saw  me,  she  smiled  a  welcome,  and  said,  in 
a  weak  voice,  "  Come  and  sit  near  me,  my  dear.  I  want 
to  talk  to  you  seriously,  and  1  know  you  will  not  oblige 
me,  seeing  how  ill  I  am,  to  say  much  in  order  to  have 

you  obey  me."  •  j  4.1, 

"Oh,  aunt,  liave  I  ever  disobeyed  you?"  I  cried,  the 

hot  tears  springing  to  my  eyes. 

«No,  my  child;  not  me,  directly,  but  your  uncle.  It 
is  he  whom  you  have  disobeyed,  and  he  is  seriously 
offended  at  your  persistence  in  shutting  yourself  in  your 
room,  and  neglecting  your  duties,  as  you  haje^  for  some 
time  To-day  he  has  consulted  with  Lord  Hardmoor, 
and  they  have  decided  that  something  must  be  done  to 
insure  your  obedience  in  the  future.  I  have  entreated 
them  not  to  resort  to  severe  measures,  hoping,  my  dear 
boy,  that  you  will  listen  to  me  and  be  reasonable." 

"I  will,  d^ar  aunt,"  I  replied,  earnestly,  for  I  was 
touched  to  the  h^art  by  her  feeble  voice.  "I^^lbe 
reasonable,  only  do.i't  ask  me  to  give  it  up  altogether. 
You  know,  I  am  co  be  an  artist.  It  was  papas  wish, 
and  God  has  given  me  the  talent,  and  I  must  improve  it. 
A  voice  is  always  urging  me  on,  something  that  I  cannot 
resist  forces  me  to  study,  to  work,  every  moment  I  ha,ve; 
_  I  love  it.  It  is  my  life,  my  only  happiness.  No  matter 
where  I  am,  no  matter  what  I  am  doing,  I  am  always 
thinking  and  dreaming  of  pictures,  and,  aunt,  I  hear  the 


M 


WSM 


81A8T. 

iourage  me.   Con- 
uccess,  I  thought 

s,  and  I  had  not 

e  to  come  to  her 

1  went  in  softly, 

ome,  and  said,  in 

my  dear,     I  want 

)u  will  not  oblige 

in  order  to  have 

ou  ?  "  I  cried,  the 

it  your  uncle.  It 
d  he  is  seriously 
ig  yourself  in  your 
70\i  have  for  some 
I  Lord  Hardmoor, 
;  must  be  done  to 

I  have  entreated 
h,  hoping,  my  dear 

reasonable." 
rnestly,  for  I  was 

voice.  "  I  will  be 
5  it  up  altogether, 
t  was  papa's  wish, 

I  must  improve  it. 
thing  that  I  cannot 
Bry  moment  I  have ; 
jpiness.  No  matter 
ioing,  I  am  always 
nd,  aunt,  I  hear  the 


DOBKTHKA. 


67 


voice  always,  and  I  see  the  eyes  of  Kaphael,  of  my  lost 
picture ;  —  they  look  at  me  earnestly,  as  though  they  read 
my  soul,  then  they  gaze  away  beyond  me  into  a  distance 
where  I  must  follow." 

"Poor  little  dreamer,  poor  little  enthusiast,"  she 
said,  sadly.  "You  must  not  wonder  that  every  one 
cannot  understand  you.  I  am  too  ill  and  weak  to  reason 
with  you  now,  but  I  appreciate  your  impressions.  They 
would  be  singular  in  most  children,  y'  t  they  are  quite 
in  keeping  with  such  an  imaginative  nature  as  yours. 
Unhappily,  the  guardians  your  father  selected  do  not 
think  as  he  did.  They  have  a  decided  aversion  to  your 
making  a  profession  of  art.  They  wish,  when  you  are 
of  age,  that  you  should  live  in  England,  on  your  estate, 
and  become  a  useful  country  gentleman.  It  is  their 
opinion  that  an  artist's  life  is  somewhat  irregular  and 
Bohemian,  and  that  by  encouraging  such  a  taste  now 
you  will  be  unfitted  for  the   serious  duties  of    your 

future." 

"I  can  never  give  it  up,  aunt,"  I  cried,  passionately. 
"I  can  never  give  up  painting,  and  live  in  England. 
Surely,  you  do  not  agree  with  them  ?  " 

"Not  altogether;  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  you 
must  choose  your  own  career,  that  you  m'-tst  listen  to 
the  inner  voice,  the  voice  of  the  soul,  before  which  all 
others  should  be  silent.  Still,  you  must  be  reasonable ; 
you  cannot  devote  yourself  to  one  duty  while  you  neglect 
all  others.  While  you  are  under  the  control  of  your 
guardians,  obey  them  as  far  as  you  can  without  doing 
violence  to  your  conscience,  and  when  your  age  frees  you 
from  their  restraint,  you  can  follow  your  own  inclination 
in  regard  to  your  profession.  Now,  my  doar  child,  will 
you  promise  me  to  divide  your  time  properly  between  this 


K«ssnMsWlinMcai»s»W»w«ai»»!M^'^*» 


)\ 


68 


THE  STORY  OP  AN  ENTHUSIAST. 


Study  that  engrosses  you  and  your  other  duties,  which  are 
no  less  pressing?"  . 

"I  will,  aunt;  I  will  do  as  you  wish,"  I  replied,  sin- 
cerely sorry  that  1  had  grieved  her.  "  You  are  right ;  I 
have  lived  in  a  dream  these  last  few  months,  and  I  have 
not  been  conscious  of  disobedience.  My  guardians  shall 
not  have  cause  to  complain  in  the  future.  I  will  attend 
to  ray  other  studies  faithfully ;  but  I  must  have  sOme 
time  to  devote  to  my  drawing.  I  can't  give  it  up ;  indeed 
I  can't."  I  was  terribly  in  earnest,  and  my  aunt  saw  it. 
A.t  the  thought  of  being  deprived  of  my  only  happiness, 
my  heart  turned  cold  and  still,  and  drops  of  sweat 
started  on  my  forehead.  I  felt  as  though  I  were  plead- 
ing for  more  than  life,  and  that  my  aunt's  decision  was 
to  give  me  hope  or  plunge  me  into  despair. 

"Be  patient,  my  dear  boy,  and  when  I  am  better  I 
will  arrange  everything  for  your  best  interest.  My 
wish  now  is  that  you  should  try  to  conciliate  your 
uncle  by  strict  attention  to  your  lessons.  Begin  to-mor- 
row, and  be  at  the  breakfast-table  in  season,  and  do  not 
refuse  to  remain  to  prayers.  Your  uncle  thinks  tluit  a 
serious  offence.  Leave  the  rest  to  me ;  I  will  see  that 
you  have  a  certain  time  allotted  you  for  your  art-studies. 
Now,  my  dear,  I  am  very  tired ;  kiss  me,  and  then  go  and 
amuse  yourself  with  you*  cousins." 

As  I  turned  to  leave  her,  after  a  heartfelt  embrace, 
her  weak  hand  still  clung  to  mine,  as  though  she  would 
detain  me.  A  happier  expression  than  I  had  ever  seen 
on  her  worn  face  seemed  to  transfigure  her,  and  her 
voice  had  a  new  tone,  something  bright  and  expectant, 
as  she  said,  "My  darling,  beyond  all  these  earthly 
troubles  there  is  an  eternity  of  compensation,  if  we  only 
try  to  do  our  duty,  and  are  patient  and  obedient.    We 


AST. 

uties,  which  are 

I  replied,  sin- 
ou  are  right ;  I 
ths,  and  I  have 
guardians  shall 
I  will  attend 
lust  have  sOme 
ve  it  up ;  indeed 
my  aunt  saw  it. 
only  happiness, 
irops  of  sweat 
h  I  were  plead- 
t's  decision  was  . 
ir. 

I  I  am  better  I 
5  interest.  My 
conciliate  your 
Begin  to-mor- 
ison,  and  do  not 
le  thinks  that  a 

I  will  see  that 
your  art-studies. 

and  then  go  and 

iartfelt  embrace, 
liough  she  would 
I  had  ever  seen 
ire  her,  and  her 
it  and  expectant, 
il  these  earthly 
sation,  if  we  only 
d  obedient    We 


DORETHEA. 


59 


must  not  struggle  against  the  unseen  hand  that  ever 
rests  upon  us.  Its  strength  is  far  beyond  ours,  and  we 
must  sub  nit.  Our  journey  upward  is  not  easy,  nor  our 
path  free  from  obstructions,  but  we  must  put  them 
aside  with  a  gentle  hand,  lest  what  we  remove  from  our 
own  way  we  may  place  in  that  of  another.  I  have  done 
what  I  could  for  you.  dear  Felix ;  I  have  tried  to  remove 
as  many  obstacles  from  your  path  as  I  could.  Never 
forget  what  I  have  said  to  you.  May  God  bless  and 
guide  you ;  now  go,  and  remember  always  that  1  love 

you." 

The  next  morning  I  arose  early,  full  of  good  intentions. 
It  was  my  aunt's  birthday,  and  I  resolved  to  obey  her 
wishes  strictly.  Our  little  programme  had  been  arranged 
the  previous  evening.  After  prayers  we  were  to  go  to 
my  aunt's  room  with  our  gifts  and  congratulations. 
Dorothea  was  coming  to  pass  the  day  and  we  were  to 
have  tea  on  the  lawn, 

I  dressed  myself  carefully,  with  a  light  heart,  chatting 
all  the  while  to  Walter,  who  was  in  a  bad  humor  owing 
to  an  accident  that  had  happened  to  a  pretty  knitting- 
box  he  had  bought  for  his  mother.  Too  impetuous  in  his 
movements,  he  had  dropped  it  and  broken  off  the  cover 
at  the  hinges.  For  some  time  we  both  worked  over  it, 
vainly  trying  to  repair  it.  At  last  Walter  took  it  to 
Clarence  in  the  hope  that  he  might  be  more  successful, 
and  I  lingered  behind  to  look  again  at  my  drawing,  when 
I  discovered  a  leaf  that  needed  a  glaze  of  lake.  "  It  will 
take  only  a  moment,"  I  thought,  so  I  opened  my  paint- 
box. Just  then  the  breakfast  bell  rang,  and  in  conster- 
nation I  remembered  my  promise  to  my  aunt.  "  I  will 
explain  why  I  was  late  this  morning,"  I  said  to  myself, 
«  and  after  this  I  will  always  be  punctual." 


mutA^tttymiUimmm:. 


i<aasgas«eg»3w»«ii.i!jJ^.ij'**i^"ww**M 


■tMoaatl^MM 


60 


TllK  8T011Y  OF   AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


Before  1  was  aware  of  it,  I  was  utterly  oblivious  to 
everything  around  me,  for,  on  looking  at  the  picture  with 
a  fresh  eye,  I  thought  it  needed  a  number  of  little  touches, 
a  shadow  softened,  an  outline  strengthened,  —  for  when  is 
a  painting  ever  finished,  to  one  who  is  a  careful,  faithful 
student  of  nature  ? 

The  first  thing  that  disturbed  me  was  the  sudden  open- 
ing of  the  door,  and,  looking,  I  saw  my  uncle  standing 
before  me,  pale,  and  trembling  with  anger.  His  watery 
eyes  glared  behind  his  spectacles,  and  his  mouth  had  a 
very  ugly  expression,  quite  a  diabolical  smile,  which,  I 
felt,  foreboded  mischief.  , 

"  Well,  my  young  artist,  here  you  are  at  it  again,  in 
spite  of  your  promise  to  your  aunt  last  evening !  I  see 
your  word  is  not  to  be  trusted,  and  that  you  are  deter- 
mined to  defy  us  all.  It  is  now  time  for  me  to  exercise 
some  authority,  and,  instead  of  reasoning  with  you,  I  shall 
use  surer  means.    Let  me  see  the  trash  you  waste  your 

time  upon." 

My  drawing  lay  on  the  table,  still  wet  with  the  last 
touches.  Seeing  my  uncle's  intention,  instinctively  I 
sprang  before  it,  trembling  like  an  aspen,  and  crying 
desperately,  "Oh,  uncle!  don't  injure  it!  please  don't! 
It's  for  aunt.  It's  for  her  birthday  gift.  You  can  trust 
me,  after  to-day  I  will  do  as  you  wish.  I  didn't  mean  to 
disobey  you  this  morning.  I  forgot  how  late  it  was,  be- 
cause I  wanted  to  improve  it  a  little  before  I  gave  it  to 

her."  . ,       ^  , 

Not  heeding  my  frantic  cry,  he  pushed  me  aside  rudely, 
and,  seizing  the  drawing-board,  he  pulled  the  picture  off 
with  one  violent  wrench,  and,  tearing  ifinto  small  frag- 
ments, he  threw  them  at  my  feet.  Then  taking  the 
contents  of  my  portfolio,  without  even  glancing  at  them, 


'-^-^iii,  iiiiiiwi— liiili'i 


iliMj.utf^^WBtilWMMl' 


3IAST. 


DORETIIKA. 


Gl 


;erly  oblivious  to 
it  the  picture  with 
r  of  little  touches, 
ed,  —  for  when  is 
a  careful,  faithful 

J  the  sudden  open- 
ly uncle  standing 
ger.  His  watery 
his  mouth  had  a 
\X  smile,  which,  I 

ire  at  it  again,  in 
st  evening!  I  see 
lat  you  are  deter- 
'or  me  to  exercise 
ig  with  you,  T  shall 
h  you  waste  your 

wet  with  the  last 
on,  instinctively  I 
aspen,  and  crying 
it!  please  don't! 
ft.  You  can  trust 
I  didn't  mean  to 
ow  late  it  was,  be- 
lefore  I  gave  it  to 

led  me  aside  rudely, 
[led  the  picture  off 
it'into  small  frag- 
Theu  taking  the 
a  glancing  at  them, 


he  flung  them  in  pioces  on  the  floor  with  tlio  otliors.  In 
one  instant  the  careful  work  of  months  lay  in  ruin  before 
me.  My  horror  was  too  great  for  expression.  With  wide- 
open  ey(!8  and  palsied  tongue,  I  could  only  stare  at  him, 
without  the  power  of  uttering  one  cry  of  entreaty.  ^ly 
paints  and  pencils  lay  on  the  table  just  as  I  had  used 
them.  With  a  cruel  sneer  he  gathered  tliem  up,  and, 
breaking  them  into  splinters,  he  added  them  to  the  pile 
of  torn  sketches.  Then  taking  my  last  treasure,  the  box 
of  colors,  that  had  cost  me  so  much  self-denial,  he  glanced 
around  for  some  means  of  destruction  for  them,  when 
the  ^lop-j.ar  caught  his  eye.  "  Ah,  I  see ! "  he  said,  with  a 
brutal  laugh  ;  "  I  will  save  you  the  trouble  of  mixing  your 
paints,"  and,  before  I  fully  understood  his  intention,  he 
turned  the  contents  of  the  box  into  the  jar  of  water  we 
had  used  for  bathing.  • 

This  was  more  tlian  I  could  endure.  A  sharp  pain 
pierced  me  to  the  heart,  a  hot  wave  mounted  hissing  to 
my  brain,  some  chord  stretched  to  the  utmost  tension 
seemed  to  snap  suddenly,  and,  with  a  loud  cry  of  anguish 
I  sprang  toward  hini,  and  fell  heavily  to  the  floor  in  vio- 
lent convulsions. 

V. 

This  fearful  and  sudden  shock  caused  a  long  and 
serious  illness  which  affected  my  brain  principally.  For 
weeks  I  lay  in  a  most  critical  condition,  happily  oblivious 
of  pain  or  sorrow.  When,  at  last,  I  came  slowly  back  to 
consciousness,  it  seemed  as  though  both  reason  and  mem- 
ory were  gone.  I  was  like  an  infant  of  a  few  weeks,  too 
feeble  to  think  or  speak ;  even  the  room  seemed  strange, 
and  the  subdued  voices  sounded  far  off  and  unfamiliar. 


Eii■flne»t,*aa^^J.'UliMWlunl  f 


THE   STOUY   OF   AN    RNXnUSrAST. 

Sometimes  I  tried  to  remember  who  I  was,  wliere 
I  was,  and  what  had  hapi-ened,  but  the  effort  was  too 
much  for  my  weak  brain,  and  before  I  suoceeded  in  solv- 
ing the  mystery  I  usually  fell  into  a  stupor  which  they 
called  sleep.  For  a  long  time  I  thought  I  was  another 
person,  so  impossible  was  it  to  establish  in  my  own 
mind  my  identity  and  locality.  At  last,  one  day  I  re- 
membered my  name,  and,  looking  up  at  the  strange 
woman  bending  over  me,  I  asked  for  my  mother. 

"Poor  darling!  yes!  yes!"  said  the  nurse,  kindly. 
"You  are  very  ill,  and  you  must  not  talk;  take  this  cool 
drink,  and  then  close  your  eyes  and  try  to  sleep." 

I  took  the  wine-whey  and  closed  my  eyes,  but  I  could 
not  sleep.  After  a  moment  1  looked  up  again,  and  said, 
"Where  is  papa?     I  want  papa." 

"Hush,  hush,  my  dear!  "said  the  nurse,  soothingly. 
"  I  want  papa."  I  persisted ;  "  and  Bettine.     Where  is 
Bettine  ?»    My  mind  had  gone  back  to  iny  early  child- 
hood. ,         -  ,     . 

The  nurse  went  to  the  door,  and  spoke  softly  to  some 
one.  A  tall,  white-haired  man  came  in  and  took  my 
hand,  looking  anxiously  into  my  face;  then  he  slipped 
an  arm  under  my  neck,  and  gently  raised  me.  "  Do  you 
know  me,  Felix,"  he  asked,  stroking  the  hair  away  from 

my  forehead. 

1  looked  at  him,  and  said  again,  « I  want  pa^  u  i  hen 
he  laid  me  back  on  my  pillow,  and  sat  beside  me,  hold- 
ing my  hand  and  stroking  it  gently. 

One  night  I  thought  I  saw  a  face  look  out  from  behind 
the  curtain.  I  was  alone,  and  the  face  was  always 
there.  I  screamed  loudly,  and  my  uncle  came  forward 
with  a  frightened  look.  When  I  saw  him,  swift  as  a 
flash  of  light  the  whole  scene  of  that  dreadful  morning 


iiiiiiitwiiiiiii'ritu ■|-ffiij|>iii«'i»«s,-. 


I  AST. 

0  I    was,  where 
e  effort  was  too 
uoceeded  in  solv- 
ipor  which  they 
it  I  was  another 
ilish  in  my  own 
st,  one  day  I  re- 
)   at  the  strange 
Y  mother, 
le   nurse,  kindly. 
Ik ;  take  this  cool 
to  sleep." 
eyes,  but  I  covild 
p  again,  and  said, 

nurse,  soothingly, 
lettine.     Where  is 

0  my  early  child- 

ike  softly  to  some 
!  in  and  took  my 
I ;  then  he  slipped 
sed  me.  "  Do  you 
he  hair  away  from 

vant  pat  v"  Then 
it  beside  me,  hold- 

ok  out  from  behind 

1  face  was  always 
ncle  eame  forward 
aw  him,  swift  as  a 
b  dreadful  morning 


DOKETHEA. 


68 


came  before  me,  and  I  knew  him.  Starting  from  my 
pillow,  I  implored  him  not  to  spoil  my  picture.  I  en- 
treated and  cried,  wriiiging  my  hands  pitifully. 

Greatly  alarmed  at  my  excitement,  my  uncle  tried  to 
calm  and  soothe  me,  looking  toward  the  door  for  help. 
While  r  cried  and  moaned,  a  sudden  fear  took  possession 
of  me.  My  heart  seemed  to  stop  beating,  drops  of 
sweat  streamed  down  my  face,  and,  trembling  like  a 
leaf,  I  could  only  utter  a  succession  of  faint  shrieks. 

In  a  moment  some  one  had  his  arms  around  me, 
soothing  me  gently.  I  looked  up,  and  the  kind  face  that 
I  had  seen  before  was  bending  over  me. 

"Send  him  away!"  I  gasped,  "send  him  away!  I 
am  afraid  of  him." 

Once  or  twice  after  that  I  saw  my  uncle  again,  when 
the  same  eonvulsion  of  terror  seized  me,  and  I  trembled 
until  he  left  the  room. 

One  morning,  at  early  dawn,  I  looked  a  long  while  at 
the  man  who  sat  beside  my  bed  as  still  as  a  statue,  his 
eyes  closed  and  his  face  pale  and  weary.  At  last  I 
knew  he  was  Dr.  Ijangham,  whom  I  had  often  seen. 
When  he  moved  and  looked  at  me,  I  asked  :  "  Doctor, 
why  are  you  sitting  by  me  ?  " 

"  l^ecause  you  are  ill,  and  I  want  you  to  get  well,"  he 
replied,  with  a  pleased  smile. 

"  I  want  to  see  papa,"  I  returned,  and  then  for  the 
first  time  I  remembered  that  he  was  dead,  and,  covering 
my  face  with  my  weak  hands,  I  cried  silently. 

I  have  an  indistinct  recollection  of  sometimes  seeing 
Walter  with  red  eyes,  and  swollen  face,  sitting  by  my 
bed,  as  though  he  had  cried  a  great  deal,  and  once 
Helen  came  in,  dressed  in  a  black  frock,  stoojied  over 
me,  and  kissed  me,  and  then  went  away  holding  her  hand- 


64  THE  BTOBY  OF  AN  ENTHUSIAST. 

kovcluef  to  her  eyes.  I  thought  that  I  was  dead,  and  that 
he  .nounnng-f/ock  was  for  ,ae.  Like  a  burred  pan- 
raiua  the  little  scenes  of  n>y  sick-room  papsed  betoxo 
me,  and  slowly,  one  by  one,  the  various  incidents  of  n.y 
life  came  out  on  the  dim  background  of  -y  "-^  ^S 
all  was  dear  again ;  but  it  did  not  seem  as  though  I  had 
bl;:  an  actor  in  thim,  -  they  were  rather  like  the  scenes 
in  some  story  1  had  reiul. 

The  only  thing  that  moved  mo  was  a  glimpse  of 
,nv  uncle.  Nothing  hurt,  nothing  pleased  me.  1  was 
indifferent  to  everything  else.  Thei.  seemed  no  pas  , 
no  present,  no  future.  I  was  emotionless,  dull ;  my  sou 
floated  in  a  vacuum  crossed  now  and  then  by  a  face  or 
voice  that  left  little  impression. 

One  day  the  nurse  raised  me  on  a  pillow,  and  someone 
came  softly  into  the  room.     I  opened  my  «y««  ^'j;2' 
and  saw  Lord  Hardmoor.     His  face  was  ^f^^'y- 
Something  in  his  eyes  touched  me.     I  reached  out  my 
teuk  hands,  and  in  an  instant  I  was  sobbing  in  his  arms 
At  last  I  was  becoming  conscious  of  the  needs  of  the 
heart.    I  luid  often  wondered  where  my  aunt  was,  but 
some   strange    impression    kept    me    «'!«;*•  J^^^^    J 
dreamed  of  seeing   my  picture  in   a   pale    light,   and 
kneeling  before  it  were  three  figures.     They  turned  and 
.      lookei  at  me,  and  I  saw  my  mother,  my  father,  and  my 
•unit     After  that  I  felt  that  she  had  gone  away  with 
the  others,  and  I  should  see  her  no  more  only  in  my 
dreams.     "  If  she  was  not  gone   she  would  --^«  «- 
me,"  I  said,  thinking  of  it  as  I  lay  m  Lord  Haidmooi  s 

'''^ "  Who,  my  boy  ?  who  woul4  come  ?  "  he  asked. 
"My  aunt,"  I  replied.  ■      ^^ 

«0h!   she  has  gone  away  for  a  little  while. 


./ 


IIA8T. 

as  (lead,  and  that 
a  blurred  pauo- 

m  paFsed  before 
incidents  of  my 
my  memory,  and 

I  as  though  I  had 

lor  like  the  scenes 

vas  a  glimpse  of 
3a8ed  ine.  I  was 
!  seemed  no  past, 
ess,  dull ;  my  soul 
;hen  by  a  face  or 

How,  and  some  one 
iny  eyes  languidly, 
was  full  of  pity. 
I  reached  out  my 
Dbbiug  in  his  arms, 
the  needs  of  the 
my  aunt  was,  but 

silent.      Once    I 
a  pale   light,   and 

They  turned  and 
ny  father,  and  my 
id  gone  away  with 
>  more  only  in  my 
would  come  to  see 
n  Lord  Hardmoor's 

?  "  he  asked. 

tie  while." 


DORETHEA. 


66 


"  Yes,  she  has  gone  away,"  I  said,  dreamily  ;  "  she  is 
with  papa  and  mama.  I  have  seen  her,  and  she  is 
happy  with  them," 

Lord  Hardmoor  looked  at  me  with  a  sort  of  awe,  and 
whispered  to  the  nurse,  'I'oor  Doy!  his  mind  wanders 

still." 

After   a  little  while   I  asked,   "Is    Dorethea    gone 

too  ?  " 

"No,  Felix;  she  is  at  homo  with  her  mother.  You 
shall  see  her  as  soon  as  you  are  strong  enough." 

"I  am  strong  enough  now.  I  want  to  see  her,"  I  said, 
restlessly. 

"  Yes,  yes ;  you  shall.  Only  bo  very  quiet.  I  mean 
to  take  you  to  the  Hall  as  soon  as  you  are  better,  and 
Dorethea  shall  nurse  you." 

I  smiled  contentedly,  and,  as  I  closed  my  eyes,  I  heard 
the  nurse  say :  — 

"  That's  the  first  time  I've  seen  him  smile,  and  it's  a 
good  sign.     He's  always  looked  so  solemn-like." 

Weeks  passed  on,  and  gradually,  as  the  fevpr  loffc  me, 
my  brain  became  stronger,  the  mists  dispersed,  and  left 
my  mind  perfectly  lucid,  but  languid  and  inactive. 
When  asked  if  I  would  see  my  cousins,  I  said :  "  No ;  I 
was  tired."  I  refused  the  most  tempting  food,  always 
with  the  same  answer,  "I  was  not  hungry."  I  had  fallen 
into  a  lassitude,  in  which  mind  and  body  were  alike 
powerless  to  rally.  If  I  had  any  desire  at  all,  it  was  for 
the  place  where  those  I  loved  had  gone.  At  times  I  saw 
them  in  the  radiant  light  of  a  dream,  and  I  would  awake 
and  weep  bitterly. 

One  bright  morning  I  was  lifted  on  to  a  sofa  for  the 
first  time,  and  the  curtains  were  opened  to  let  in  the  sun- 
lieht.    Wheo  I  saw  my  white,  thin  face  in  a  mirror 


'    tlVll  IIIMIH  illlllliillllllTlillllHII        I    "     • 


66  THK   8TOIIY   OF   AN    ENTHimiAST. 

op,o«it.,  the  tears  vollea  down  ,uy  clu.ks,  a.ul  1  l.;ul  no 

flowers  on  the  table.  'Hu,  smmner  wus  «...  I  .^"kul 
what  month  it  was,  uu.l  he  tohl  n.o  wc  were  in  Uctobei. 
I  Iwul  been  ill  nearly  three  months. 

While  n.y  cousin  stood  looking  at  mo,  his  face    uU  o 
„ltv   the  .loor  was  softly  opened,  and  I  caught  a  gl.n.pse 
^     a  Iri^^rfaoo      In  a  n>o.nent  Dorethea  was  knee hng 
;^^;;;!'v^h  all  her  pretty  hair  spread  c.e^^^^^^^ 
I  could  not  speak  nor  move;  only  my  slow  teais  ttU 

-^:r:m:"rr  r::;iv:^—  uer  emouo. 

Jd  i:i.d  up,  smiling,  as  she  said:  " "o^  st.,.    of  u. 
to  crv  ;  but  you  look  so  white  and  sad.    ^ow,  1  tlix,  >ou 
must     heor  up,  and  hurry  to  get  better;  for  papa  has 

are  quite  well."  ^^^  ^^^^^-^ 

""^i  V„ow,a,™t  .ever  .«  t,,e  .""--J.f 
„„w  .he  i»  cone  «lier»  I  «™  '!»  """""S  """"  '"'    .      , 
"Tvt,  you  can,  dea,.     Y»«  can  ijc^e  LcH.,  f-y-g  to 
get  well     DO  you  think  she  is  happy  "l'"'"  »''  J 
Lne,  to  Itnow  that  you  are  suBermg  here.    «'.  J-''^ 
he  i;  looking  at  s«eet„r  flo«.s  now  *- »2'  triev 
..onM  rive  her.     iet  that  comfort  you,  and  don  t  fcncve 
r^   anything  t..at  is  past.     I  «™  f  "'"/Zg'  a*" 
shall  rest  awhile,  and  the»  we  mil  bwe  a  long  talk. 


I  AST. 

s,  ami  1  l.;»l  "« 

unch  of  autumn 

HOIK".     I  .iHked 

vero  in  October. 

,  his  face  full  of 
caught  a  glimpHo 
uni  waa  kui-fliu^' 
,1  ov(^r  my  pillow. 
y  slow  tears  fell 

Lilc. 

lied  lier  emotion, 
How  stupid  of  me 
Now,  Felix,  you 
tor;  for  papa  has 
all  as  soon  as  you 
irse  you  until  you 

,  holding  her  hand 

liut  do  you  know 

ver. 

it  it,"  she  replied, 

e  primroses.     And 
ng  more  for  her." 
ise  her  by  trying  to 
ppy  where  she  has 
g  here.     Oh,  Felix  ! 
r  than  any  that  you 
m,  and  don't  grieve 
sing  to  you,  and  you 
have  a  long  talk." 


DORKTHEA. 


67 


Listrning  to  her  sweet  low  vnm\  I  fell  asleep,  and 
dreanit'd  thiit  I  was  in  my  old  liome  wifli  my  I'lither,  and 
that  IJapliat'l's  eyes  f(tllowed  me  witli  the  pensive,  wist- 
ful gazt!  that  I  eould  uevtu-  forget. 

After  that  I  began  to  improve  and  to  take  some  int«'r- 
est  ill  my  nurroundings,  jiskcd  to  see  m^  eousins,  and 
olleu  talked  with  tlm  duotor.  "  Would  you  like  to  see 
your  unole  V  "  ho  asked,  one  day. 

"Oil,  no!"  I  erii'd,  shuddering.  "I  ean't  see  him.  T 
can't.     I'm  afraid  of  him." 

"  Never  mind,  my  dear  boy.     You  need  not  if   you 

don't  wish  to,"  said  the  doctor,  looking  at  me  closely 

and  anxiously.     "But,  tell  me,  why  do  you  fear  him  V" 

"  Because  ho  is  so  cruel,  ho  lias  hurt  mo  so ;  h»t  has 

destroyed  everything  I  loved." 

I  was  fearfully  excited,  and,  clinging  to  the  doctor's 
hand,  I  begged  him  to  lake  mo  to  Ilardmoor  Hall  at 
once,  for  I  felt  that  if  my  uncle  should  enter  my  room 
the  shock  woidd  be  fatal  to  my  reason.  That  idea  took 
such  possession  of  my  feeble  brain  that  I  could  think  of 
nothing  else.  Every  time  the  door  was  opened  from 
without,  I  started  and  screamed.  I  feared  to  sleep  lest  1 
should  awake  and  iind  him  standing  by  my  bed.  At 
last  the  doctor  became  alarmed,  and  decided  that  it  was 
better  to  remove  me  than  for  mo  to  remain  in  such  a 
state  of  excitement. 

One  mild,  dull  day  in  November,  I  was  carried  down 
the  Rectory  stairs  by  the  doctor  ami  Lord  Ilardmoor, 
laid  a  helpless  burden  in  an  easy  carriage,  and  driven 
slowly  away  from  my  uncle's  door.  And  never  again  in 
■Jd  my  life  did  I  cross  the  threshold  of  the  house  where 
I  had  suffered  so  much.  Through  the  carriage  windows 
I  sa.vv  the  yellow  let^ves  clinging  here  and  there  to  soddea 


/ 


OH  TIIK  HTOIIY   (»K   AN   KNTIIOHrAHT. 

brun.aioH.  Tl.H  kxul.m  8ky,  tho  gray  moors  luul  distant 
hills  luusH  b.lorn  mo  lik.<  a  l.iolur.  in  Had,  ool.l  coU.rB, 
dcHtituto  of  li«ht  and  lif«.  It  was  November,  and  my 
iathor  had  buen  deiul  two  yeats. 


VI. 

DoHKTiiKA'H  m..th(M-,  wlu.m  I  had  soon  but  seldom, 
wan  a  ..oble,  tcn.lor-hourted  won.an.  To  hor  kindnoss 
and  caro  I.  owo  in  a  measure  my  final  restoration  to 
health  and  reason,  altlu.ugh  for  somo  timo  alter  I  was 
removed  U,  llardmoor  Hall  1  lingered  in  a  condition  so 
sinLMilar  ivs  to  batHe  the  skill  of  a  well  known  physician, 
who  was  called  from  London  to  consult  with  Dv.  Lang- 

ham.  .    ,      ... 

A  strange  hallucination  possessed  me,  connectod  with 
the  scene  preceding  my  illness.     1  firmly  believed  that 
th(*  piiiture  my  undo  destroyed  was  tho  hoadot  llap l.ael, 
and  that,  in  some  mysterious  way,  it  was  physically  a 
part  of  myself.     It  had  ceased  to  be  a  mental  impres- 
Bion,  and  had  become  an  actual  bodily  agony.    I  com- 
plained  constantly  of  a  pain  about  my  heart,  as  if  it  was 
being  torn  from  mo  in  fragments.     At  times  I  suffered 
horribly,  and  my  morbid  imagination  rehearsed  with  pit- 
iless fidelity  over  and  over  every  detail  of  the  parting 
with  my  picture,  and  its  imaginary  sacrifice,  and  the 
HMiding  of  it  into  pieces  was  the  signal  for  a  spasm  ot 
pain  that  left  mo  utterly  exhausted. 

Even  Dorothea  lacked  tho  power  to  arouse  me  from 
the  wretched  condition  into  which  I  had  fallen.  All  day 
long  I  lay  on  a  sofa,  silently  brooding  over  my  trouble 
with  my  uncle,  the  horrible  end  of  all  my  hopes,  and 
the  loss  that  nothing  on  earth  could  replace.     The  pic 


amm 


MUH 


1 


DOIIKTIIKA. 


69 


UAHT. 

jor«  luul  <li«tiiiit 

Had,  oold  colors, 

(VoiulK!r,  imd  my 


loou  but  seldom, 
To  \mv  kiiidnuss 
lal  rt'Htoratioii  to 
time  aftur  I  wan 
u  a  condition  so 
known  physician, 
It  with  Dr.  Laug- 

le,  connected  with 
mly  believed  that 
i  head  of  llaphael, 
was  physically  a 
a  mental  impres- 
ly  agony.     I  corn- 
heart,  as  if  it  was 
t  times  I  suffered 
rehearsed  with  pit- 
ail  of  the  parting 
sacrifico,  and  the 
lal  for  a  spasm  of 

o  arouse  me  from 
ad  fallen.  All  day 
g  over  my  trouble 
all  my  hopes,  and 
replace.     The  pic- 


tured face  took  the  place  of  my  father'n.  I  saw  it  con- 
stantly lH-f..re  me,  the  eyes  hllcd  with  t.-ars  of  somm, 
an.l  the  liim  white  and  (piivcring  with  anguish.  Irmii  it 
to  me  there  seemed  invisible  c.nls,  that  straincl  and 
tugged  at  my  heart  until  the  buffering  was  unlM,urabl.«. 

At  times,  but  rarely,  the  clou.ls  that  surrouml.-d  me 
were  pierced  by  a  goUUn  ray,  and  in  the  light  <,i  aiy 
dreams  I  saw  the  face  I  love.l,  life-like,  Hercn-ly 
beautiful,  but  the  eyes  always  h.ok."d  beyond  nic  into 
the  infinite  distance  where  I  could  lu.  longer  follow. 

The  voice  that  spoke  to  mo  of  art,  nature,  an.l  beauty 
was  silent,  and  1  heard  it  no  more.  A  .^hord  was  broke,, 
that  destroyed  all  the  harmony  of  my  life.  Often  1 
pitied  myself  and  mourned  over  my  own  rum.  I  shall 
never  love  anything  again.  I  shall  never  be  happy 
again.     I   can  only  remember  and  suffer  as  long  as  1 

live  " 

Dorcthea  resorted  to  all  sorts  of  devices  to  distract  my 
thoughts  from  myself.     She  talked  to  me  of  summer  an. 
woodland  walks,  of  pi.rtures  and  painters,  of  music  ami 
sunshine,  of  everything  bright  and  beautitul      Hhe  read 
pleasant  stories,  sang  and  play.'d  light  cheerful  airs,  but 
nothing  she  did  could  dissipate  the  morbid  gloom  that 
enshrouded  me.     The  Christmas  holidays  came  and  went, 
with   the   attendant   festivities,  but  I  could  not  be  in- 
duced to  leave  my  room,  where  I  lay  .lay  after   .lay, 
neither  forgotten  nor  neglected,  but  as  hopelessly  alone 
as  though  I  were  enfolded  in  the  silence  and  darkness  of 
the  grave.     In  this  way  the  winter  passed,  and  spring 
returned  with  renewed  vigor  to  every  living  thing,  but  it 
brought  little  change  to  me. 

One  day  the  doctor  and  Lord  Hardmoor  sat  by  the 
Bofa,  where  I  lay  with  closed  eyes  and  dull,  immobile 


70 


THE  STORY   OF   AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


face.     They  must  have  thought  me   sleeping,  for  they 
were  talking  of  mo  as  though  I  were  not  present. 

"  And  can  nothing  be  clone  ?  "  I  heard  Lord  Hardmoor 
ask,  after  an  e-iclamation  of  surprise,  caused  by  arema-k 
of  the  doctor's,  which  I  had  not  noticed. 

"I  fear  not:  I  have  studied  his  case  most  carofnlly, 
and  have  watched  all  its  variations  and  complications, 
and  I  must  confess  that  it  baffles  me.  I  can't  think 
there  is  any  heart  trouble.  1  can't  agree  with  Brown'u 
diagnosis.  I  don't  believe  there  is  any  seated  disease  of 
the  brain.  It  seems  more  of  a  mental  torpor,  an  absence 
of  all  interest,  a  sort  of  death  in  life.  He  appears  to  be 
drifting  towards  imbecility." 

"  Good  Heavons  !  "  exclaimed  Lord  Hardmoor,  "  and 
he  was  such  a  bright,  intelligent  boy.  It's  of  no  use  talk- 
ing in  that  hopeless  way ;  something  must  be  done  to  save 
him  from  such  a  horrible  fate." 

«  Ah !  but  what  can  be  done  ?    If  he  could  be  aroused 
from  this  abnormal  condition,  could  be  made  to  exercise 
some  will  and  reason,  he  might  throw  off  this  lassitude 
and  with  physical  aid  effect  a  mental  cure,  but  as  he  is 
deaf  to  all  argument,  utterly  indifferent  to  his  fate,  and 
will  offer  no  moral  resistance,  the  mind  and  body  react 
one  upon  the  other  and  drugs  have   no   effect  upon 
either.    I  thought  the  change  of  bringing  him  here 
would  be  beneficial,  but  his  case  seems  more  hopeless 
than  ever;  and  that  strange  hallucination  about  your 
brother,  that  intense  craving  for  that  unfortunate  pic- 
ture, are  remarkable    beyond    any   sympton-    I    ever 
witnessed.     I  sometimes  think  that  if  it  were  possible  to 
get  that  picture  back  and  put  it  where  he  could  see  it 
constantly,  it  might  be  the  means  of  curing  him." 

"But  he  is  under  the  impression  that  my  brother 


msmmik>mm»- 


[AST. 


DOUETHKA. 


n 


eping,  for  they 
present. 
Lord  Hard  moor 
ised  by  a  rema"k 

most  carofnlly, 
complications, 
I  can't  think 
se  witli  Browii'b 
ieated  disease  of 
irpor,  au  absence 
le  appears  to  be 

Hardmoor,  "and 
;'s  of  no  use  talk- 
s' be  done  to  save 

could  be  aroused 
nade  to  exercise 
ff  this  lassitude 
ure,  but  as  he  is 
.  to  his  fate,  and 
I  and  body  react 

no  effect  upon 
nging  him  here 
as  more  hopeless 
ition  about  your 
unfortunate  pic- 
mpton  „  I  ever 
t  were  possible  to 

he  could  see  it 
ring  him." 
;hat  my  brother 


destroyed  it.  If  the  veritable  picture  were  put  before 
him  I  doubt  if  he  would  recognize  it  now.  1  really  can't 
believe  that  the  boy  had  such  an  attachment  for  a  bit  of 
painted  canvas  as  to  affect  him  mentally  and  physically. 
In  my  opinion,  it  is  all  nonsense ;  a  mere  freak  of  a  sick 
brain." 

"  Your  lordship  may  be  right.  Nevertheless,  I  have 
my  tliccry  about  this  case,  which  you  may  think  rather 
far-fetched,  but  if  I  could  not  find  some  solution  of  this 
enigma  in  it  I  should  abandon  the  study  of  Biology  for- 
ever. You  know  I  have  looked  pretty  deeply  into  hered- 
ity. It  is  one  of  my  hobbies,  and  this  poor  boy  furnishes 
the  most  interesting  example  I  have  ever  happened  to 
come  across." 

"  Why,  doctor !  what  in  Heaven's  name  are  you  driving 
at  ?  Do  you  nieau  to  say  that  the  boy  has  inherited  in- 
sanity ?  There  never  was  a  case  in  his  father's  family, 
I'll  swear.     About  his  mother  I'm  not  so  sure." 

"Not  so  fast,  my  friend.  There  are  other  things  in- 
herited besides  diseases.  There  are  characteristics, 
impressions,  likes  and  dislikes.  Let  me  give  you  an 
example,  as  briefly  as  possible.  A  mother,  before  the 
birth  of  her  child,  has  an  insatiabl''  desire  for  something 
difficult  to  obtain.  That  child  goes  through  lite  with  the 
same  desire  for  the  same  object.  You  understand  that. 
It  is  purely  physical,  it  is  natural.  Now  for  an  example 
of  mental  impression.  A  highly  wrought,  sensitive 
organization  hears  a  musical  composition  that  touches 
her  profounc"  , — it  maybe  sacred  or  profane, — and  the 
child  is  always  susceptible  to  the  influence  of  the  same 
melody.  These  are  only  hints.  I  have  no  time  to  go 
into  the  subject  of  atavism  in  all  its  ramifications,  but 
I  think  you  see  clearly  into  my  theory.     This  boy's 


■: 


72 


THE  8TOBY   OF   AN  ENTHUSIAST. 


^ 


mothex-  came  from  a  family  of  artists,  and  was  of  an 
impressionable  character.  His  father  was  an  enthusiast 
on  art.  They  marry,  and  pass  the  first  mouths  of  their 
married  life  in  Italy,  the  hot-bed  of  art.  It  is  pictures 
and  painters,  painters  and  pictures,  day  in  and  day  out. 
Raphael  is  the  favorite  master,  therefore  Raphael  is 
studied  constantly.  A  strong  affection  for  that  master's 
works  is  created  by  that  study,  and  that  affection  natu- 
rally begets  a  desire  for  possession.  Don't  look  in- 
credulous. It  is  truer  thai,  you  think,  and  your  mistake 
in  separating  the  boy  from  that  picture,  although  a 
natural  one,  may  prove  fatal  to  reason  and  even  life. 
Well,  to  go  on :  the  mother  returns  to  Paris  still  desiring 
to  possess  a  picture  by  Raphael.  Accidentally  the  father 
comes  across  one  for  sale,  and  purchases  it." 

"Oh,  no !  I  can't  go  so  far  as  to  allow  that  the  picture 
was  a  Raphael,"  interrupted  Lord  Hardmoor. 

"Never  mind.    They  believed  it  to  be  one.    It  had 
all  the  characteristics.     The  impression  was  the  same. 
The  mother  saw  it  constantly,  admired  it,  doted  on  it ; 
the  consequence  was  that  the  child  was  imbued,  bred 
and  born,  with  an  intense  love  for  that  same  picture. 
Much  such  a  clinging,  yearning  love  as  a  twin  child  feels 
for  its  mate.     It  was  part  of  him,  or  another  self  if  you 
will,  and  when  he  was  deprived  of  it  he  really  felt  the 
suffering  which  you  think  impossible,  and  with  this  you 
must  consider  his  mental   and  physical    organization. 
They  are  uncommonly  delicate  and  sensitive ;  he  is  keen- 
ly alive  to  the  least  unfavorable  impression.     To  such  a 
nature  the  most  tender  and  judicious  treatment  if.  an 
absolute  necessity.     Some  are  strengthened  and  hardf.ned 
by  severe  discipline,  others  are  crushed  and  killed ;  he  is 
one  of  the  latter.    If  he  recovers  from  this  illness,  his 


[AST. 

and  was  of  an 

iis  an  enthusiast 

nonths  of  their 

It  is  pictuves 

in  and  day  out. 

ore   Raphael  is 

or  that  master's 

affection  natu- 

Don't  look  in- 

md  your  mistake 

ure,  although   a 

a  and  even  life. 

aris  still  desiring 

ntally  the  father 

I  it." 

that  the  picture 
moor. 

be  one.  It  had 
n  was  the  same. 
I  it,  doted  on  it ; 
ras  imbued,  bred 
lat  same  picture. 
a  twin  child  feels 
other  self  if  you 
le  really  felt  the 
.nd  with  this  you 
cal  organization, 
litive ;  he  is  keen- 
sion.  To  such  a 
I  treatment  if  an 
ned  and  hardt.ned 
and  killed ;  he  is 
1  this  illness,  his 


DORETHKA. 


78 


character  will  remain  the  same,  and  life  for  him,  I  fear, 
will  be  but  a  succession  of  disappointmenf-s  and  defeats. 
Therefore,  an  early  death  would  be  the  greatest  boon  to 
desire  for  him.  Still,  we  must  do  all  we  can  to  save 
him.  For  the  present,  he  must  be  indulged  in  all  his 
fancies,  and  he  must  not  be  thwarted  in  any  way ;  he 
must  be  drawn  out  of  himself,  instead  of  being  left  to 
his  own  resources.  Only  the  utmost  gentleness  and  pa- 
tience, with  a  constant  effort  to  renew  his  interest  in 
what  he  formerly  liked,  can  awaken  the  dormant  ener- 
gies of  his  mind.  Otherwise,  I  greatly  fear  that  in  a 
little  while  he  will  be  a  hopeless  imbecile." 

"  How  terrible !  I  have  never  understood  the  true 
condition  of  the  boy  until  now,"  said  Lord  Hardmoor,  as 
he  and  the  doctor  left  the  room.  "However,  nothing 
shall  be  wanting  on  my  part  to  restore  him  to  health  if 
possible." 

After  they  went  out,  I  tried  to  remember  what  they 
had  said  I  would  become,  —  an  imbecile.  What  was  an 
imbecile  ?  In  the  confusion  of  my  thoughts,  I  could  dt- 
taf  h  no  meaning  to  it,  when,  suddenly,  a  little  scene  in 
my  past  life  came  vividly  before  me.  It  was  of  a  morn- 
ing walk  with  my  father  through  one  of  the  narrow 
streets  of  Paris,  where  we  had  seen  an  unfortunate  crea- 
ture sitting  at  the  door  of  a  cobbler's  stall  — a  wretched, 
bent,  drivelling  creature,  with  meaningless  eyes,  open 
mouth,  and  distorted  limbs.  That  horror,  my  father 
told  me,  was  an  imbecile.  And  I  should  become  like 
that !  —  I  shivered  as  though  I  had  received  a  sudden  blow, 
and  instantly  a  feeling  of  resistance  against  such  a  fate 
sprang  to  life  within  me.  I  could  die,  I  wished  to  die, 
but  I  could  not  become  such  a  frightful  thing.  No,  no  1 
it  was  impossible  !    I  remembered  the  doctor  had  spoken 


M»«»svafes:-. 


74 


THE  STORY  OF  AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


of  wi'H  and  couraffe ;  I  would  take  courage,  I  would  strug- 
gle to  shake  off  this  fearful  oppression,  I  would  arouse 
myself  from  this  dull  stupor  at  once.  I  would  tear  my- 
self from  the  chains  that  held  me.     I  would  live  and  be 

well  again. 

When  Dorethea  came  in,  a  few  moments  after,  I  sur- 
prised her  by  saying  that  I  would  like  to  be  taken  into 
the  garden.  "This  room  is  dark  and  lonesome ;  J  want 
to  see  the  sunshine  and  the  trees  waving  in  the  wind." 

The  dear  child  ran  quickly  to  tell  her  father.  Lord 
Hardmoor,  with  a  pleasant  smile  and  hearty  words  of 
encouragement,  wrapped  me  in  a  rug,  and,  with  the  help 
of  a  servant,  carried  me  to  a  recliniug-chair  that  v.  its 
placed  under  a  tree  on  the  lawn.  Lady  Hardmoor 
brought  her  embroidery,  and  worked  beside  me.  Dore- 
thea flitted  here  and  there,  searching  the  borders  for  snow- 
drops and  crocuses,  while  Lord  Hardmoor  smoked  his 
cigar  at  a  little  distance,  watching  me  closely  all  the 

while. 

I  could  not  talk,  but  lay  silently,  looking  into  the 
infinite  depths  of  the  blue  dome  stretched  above  me ;  and, 
as  I  looked,  the  prison  bars  of  ray  soul  fell  away,  and 
my  mind,  so  long  enclosed  in  darkness  and  uncertainty, 
soared  lightly  toward  the  blue  ether.    A  new  life  ran 
through  my  veins.     Spring,  God's  smile,  lay  over  the 
earth ;  its  influence  made  ray  heart  throb  with  pleasure, 
and  its  sweet  breath  cooled  and  calmed  my  aching  head. 
From  that  day  I  lived  in  the  open  air  ;  the  house  seemed 
to  oppress  me ;  only  under  the  wide  expanse  of  the  sky 
could  my  thoughts  rise  above  my  feeble  body.     Lady 
Hardmoor  and  Dorethea  watched  over  me  with  the  ten- 
derest  care.    Every  wish  was  gratified,  and  nothing  that 
could    cor  tribute    to    my  comfort  or  amusement  was 


mtwm 


■*''■!* 


J8IA8T. 

ige,  I  would  strug- 
11,  I  would  arouse 
I  would  tear  my- 
ivould  live  and  be 

lents  after,  I  sur- 
to  be  taken  into 
lonesome ;  I  want 
ng  in  the  wind." 
her  father.     Lord 
I  hearty  words  of 
and,  with  the  help 
Lug-chair  that  "v.iAS 
Lady  Hardmoor 
beside  me.     Dore- 
le  borders  for  snow- 
imoor  smoked  his 
ine  closely  all  the 

,  looking  into  the 
led  above  me ;  and, 
oul  fell  away,  and 
ss  and  uncertainty, 
[•.  A  new  life  ran 
unile,  lay  over  the 
;hrob  with  pleasure, 
3d  my  aching  head. 
;  the  house  seemed 
expanse  of  the  sky 
feeble  body.  Lady 
r  me  with  the  ten- 
d,  and  nothing  that 
or  alnusement  was 


DOUETHEA. 


75 


iifglected.  Lord  Hardmoor  himself  wheeled  me  about 
the  avenues  of  the  park  in  an  invalid-chair.  He  was  as 
gentle  and  compliant  as  a  woman.  Perhaps  there  was 
some  remorse  mingled  with  his  thoughtful  care.  Dore- 
thea,  during  our  excursions,  often  filled  my  lap  with 
wild-flowers.  One  day  she  brought  primroses ;  I  thought 
of  my  aunt  and  cried  bitterly.  After  that  I  saw  no 
more  primroses. 

The  summer  passed  away  like  a  peaceful  dream,  and 
every  day  I  grew  stronger  and  better.  My  cousins 
often  came  to  visit  me,  and  even  my  uncle  ventured  to 
dine  at  the  Hall,  and  for  the  first  time  since  my  illness 
I  met  him  without  a  shudder.  He  looked  so  sad  and 
subdued  that  I  pitied  him,  but  he  never  won  either  my 
love  or  respect.  For  Lord  Hardmoor  I  felt  an  increas- 
ing affection  and  esteem.  Although  we  were  always 
antagonistic  in  many  things,  yet  I  appreciated  what  was 
good  in  his  character,  and,  in  spite  of  his  stubborn  will 
and  great  egotism,  at  that  time,  I  felt  a  real  regard  for 

him. 

In  the  autumn,  as  I  was  comparatively  well  and 
strong,  my  guardians  decided  that  I  should  reside  for 
a  while  with  the  cm-ate,  and  begin  the  study  of  classics 
with  my  cousins.  The  hamlet  of  East  Haddingham  was 
less  than  a  mile  from  the  Hall ;  therefore,  T  was  satisfied 
with  the  arrangements,  as  it  did  not  separate  me  from 
Dorethea  and  her  mother. 

VIL 

I  WAS  fourteen  when  I  began  my  studies  with  Mr. 
Lonely,  the  curate  of  East  Haddingham.  Of  this  unpre- 
tending scholar,  to  whom  I  owe  all  my  knowledge  of 


e*53ws?s*s5ss^~  ■- ■  ■"-'^ 


76  THE  STOnY   OF  AN  ENTHUSIAST. 

boolc8,  I  must    say  a  few  words  of  an  introductory 
character.     To  manners  singularly   gracious  and   win- 
ninK  were  united  a  form  of  manly  perfection  and  a  face 
of  more  than  ordinary  beauty,  stamped  with  earnest 
thoughts  and  profound  gravity.     The  mournful  shadow 
in  his  eyes,  and  the  lines  impressed  by  sorrow,  told  that 
he  had  received  the  baptism  of  anguish  that  leaves  its 
traces  forever  both  on  the  heart  and  face.     He  was 
about  forty,  unmarried,  and  lived  alone,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  an  old  servant,  in  a  small  cottage,  whose  garden 
reached  to  the  rustic  graveyard  that  surrounded  the 

little  chapel.  ,     . 

Over  this  lovely  spot  brooded  a  soothing  calm  tha. 
was  never  disturbed  save  by  the  presence  of  my  cousins 
when  they  came  for  their  lessons,  but  so  hrm  yet 
gentle  was  the  curate's  control  over  them  that  they 
were  usually  quiet  and  studious.  ^      ,  .u^ 

From  the  first  hour  that  I  became  an  inmate  of  the 
cottage  I  felt  at  home,  for  I  had  a  strong  impression 
that  the  curate  had  taken  me  into  his  heart  as  well  as 
his  house.  My  youth  and  loneliness,  my  long  illness, 
and  my  pale,  sad  face  must  have  touched  some  i;espon- 
sive  chord  while  they  appealed  to  him  for  sympathy 

I  remember  well  my  first  evening  in  the  cottage 
parlor,  so  unlike  the  large,  brilliantly  lighted  rooms  at 
Ilardmoor  Hall,  with  Lady  Hardmoor  in  her  rusthng 
silks  and  Dorethea  flitting  about  in  muslin  and  ribbons 
lere  all  was  quiet,  simple,  subdued.  The  fire  glowed 
brightly  in  the  grate,  the  light  from  the  shaded  lanip 
fell  over  a  table  piled  with  books,  bringing  out  the 
warm  tones  of  the  crimson  covers,  and  the  rich  leather 
bindings  of  the  large  volumes,  which  appeared  to  be  in 
constant  use,  while  it  lingered  with  a  Caress  on  the 


[AST. 

m  introductory 
Icious  and   win- 

Btion  and  a  face 
Id  with  earnest 
lournful  shadow 
|orrow,  told  that 
that  leaves  its 
face.     He  was 

with  the  excep- 
e,  whose  garden 

surrounded  the 

thing  calm  thai; 
;e  of  my  cousins 
mt  so  firm  yet 
them  that    they 

in  inmate  of  the 
trong  impression 

heart  as  well  as 
,  my  long  illness, 
ihed  some  respon- 
for  sympathy. 
5  in  the  cottage 
■  lighted  rooms  at 
r  in  her  rustling 
aslin  and  ribbons. 
The  fire  glowed 

the  shaded  lamp 
bringing  out  the 
d  the  rich  leather 
ippeared  to  be  in 
L  a  Caress  on  the 


DORETHEA. 


77 


Mm 


curate's  handsome  head  and  shapely  hands  as  he  turned 
the  pages  before  him.  I  always  noticed  his  hands,  they 
were  so  slender  and  white  ;  on  his  third  finger  he  wore  a 
heavy  gold  band.  There  was  but  one  picture  in  the 
room,  and  on  that  my  eyes  loved  to  linger.  It  was  of  a 
lovely  girlish  face,  drawn  in  pastel ;  the  coloring  was 
exquisite  and  the  modelling  delicate  and  plastic.  It  was 
evidently  the  work  of  one  in  love  with  his  art  as  well 
as  with  the  charming  face  he  portrayed. 

We  had  finished  our  simple  supper ;  Hester  had  carried 
away  the  tray,  put  on  fresh  coals,  brushed  the  hearth, 
and  then  closed  the  door,  leaving  us  in  perfect  quiet. 
For  some  time  I  sat  in  deep  thought,  my  chin  resting  on 
my  open  palm,  my  eyes  fixed  on  the  glowing  grate.  It 
seemed  as  though  I  were  again  in  the  study  in  Paris, 
sitting  at  my  father's  feet,  silently  waiting  for  him  to 
awake  from  one  of  his  deep  reveries,  which  I  respected 
too  much  to  disturb.  The  clock  on  the  mantel  told  with 
faithful  precision  the  story  of  Time  and  Eternity,  the 
October  wind  moaned  softly  outside,  the  cat  purred  at 
my  feet,  and  the  silence  was  only  broken  by  the  rust- 
ling of  the  pages  which  the  curate  was  turning. 

A  great  peace  seemed  to  have  fallen  upon  me,  the 
restful  content  of  my  old  life,  and  when  I  raised  my 
eyes  it  was  almost  with  the  expectation  of  seeing  my 
father  in  his  accustomed  seat  and  the  face  of  Kaphael 
beaming  upon  me ;  but  instead  I  saw  Mr.  Lonely  read- 
ing with  bent  head,  and  the  young  girl's  rosy  lips  smil- 
ing from  the  picture  before  me. 

After  a  wlme  tlic  cvT^te  closed  his  book,  and,  drawing 
his  chair  nearer  the  fire,  began  to  talk  in  a  low,  even 
voice,  that  seemed  full  of  restrained  power.  "  You 
piust  pardon  me,  my  dear  boy,  if  I  have  neglected  yon 


78 


THK  8TOUY   OF   AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


for  the  hist  hour,"  ho  sahl,  pently;  "but  my  hpbit  of 
burying  n.ysolf  in  my  books  after  supper  is  so  cou- 
lirined  that  it  is  not  easy  to  change  it.  1  fear  you  will 
find  mo  a  anil  companion  and  the  cottage  very  quiet  utter 
vour  peasant  lii!c  at  the  llaU." 

«  Oh  no !  "  I  vcplieil.  earnestly ;  "  T  like  to  be  quiet - 
it  reminds  me  of  my  old  home  and  papa.     The  only  one 
I  miss  is  Dorethea,"  and  I  gave  a  little  sigh  when 
thought  of  the  pleasant  hours  we  had  passed  together  at 

the  Hall. 

"It  is  natural  that  you  should  regret  the  eompaniou- 

ship  of  your  little  friend,"  said  the  curate,  smiling ;  "  but 
your  lessons  will  soon  occupy  you,  and  you  will  be  very 
happy,  I  hope.  I  must  question  you  a  little  to  see  how 
far  you  are  a.lvanced,  and  then  we  will  arrange  a  plan 
for  your  future  studies." 

For  more  than  an  hour  he  talked  with  me  kindly  and 
cheerfully,  gaining  my  confidence  from  the  first.     It  was 
80  easy  to  unburden  my  heart  to  him,  to  tell  him  ot  my 
losses  and  disappointments.     My  troubles  seemed  very 
great  to  me,  and  he  listened  as  though  he  too  felt  them 
to  be  serious.    When  the  clock  struck  ten,  he  told  me  I 
could  retire,  but  before  I  left  Kim  he  pressed  my  hands 
closely  in  his,  and  said,  with  deep  feeling,  "May  God 
bless  you  and  guide  you,  my  dear  child,  and  make  you 
so  happy  in  the  future  that  you  will  cease  to  grieve  for 
the  past.     You  are  young ;  you  have  a  lifetime  in  which 
to  fulfil  all  your  hopes."  ,     u    t  i    i 

As  I  went  up  stairs  to  my  room,  I  wondered  why  i  had 
not  told  him  of  the  voice  that  used  to  haunt  me  so  per- 
sistently. Well,  it  was  silent  now,  and  why  should  I 
wish  to  hear  it  again  ?  I  had  listened  to  it  once,  and  it 
had  nearly  ruined  me ;  perhaps  it  was  better  to  forget  it 
and  all  my  dreams  connected  with  it. 


ilAST. 

jut  iny  lipbit  of 

pppr  is   so  con- 

1  fear  you  will 

e  very  quiet  after 

ike  to  be  quiet  — 
L  The  only  one 
ttlo  sigh  wlu'H  1 
asaod  together  iit 

t  the  compauiou- 
te,  smiling ;  "but 
you  will  be  very 
little  to  see  how 
11  arrange  a  plan 

ith  me  kindly  and 

the  first.     It  was 

to  tell  him  of  my 

ibles  seemed  very 

he  too  felt  them 

ten,  he  told  me  I 

pressed  my  hands 

■eeling,  "  May  God 

liild,  and  make  you 

iease  to  grieve  for 

I  lifetime  in  which 

vondered  why  I  had 
I  haunt  me  so  per- 
and  why  should  I 
to  it  once,  and  it 
3  better  to  forget  it 


DOllKTHKA. 


79 


The  next  morning  I  entered  the  study  with  my  cous- 
ins, when!  I  found  a  now  world,  the  world  of  books, 
which  I  knew  F  nuist  understand  before  I  was  fitted  to 
enter  the  world  of  men.  In  a  little  while  my  lessons 
began  to  interest  me,  and  I  never  found  my  quiet,  regu- 
lar life  d\il\  or  monotonous.  Out  of  study  hours  we 
took  long  walks  over  the  moors  that  lay  anmnd  Had- 
dingham,  sometimes  stopping  to  visit  a  pcor  parishioner 
or  to  chat  with  some  of  the  small  farmers;  on  other 
days  we  rowed  down  the  river,  which  flowed  a  few  paces 
below  the  chapel  walls. 

We  also  had  our  seasons  of  pleasure  and  recreation  in 
the  society  of  others.  Lady  Hardinoor  and  Dorothea 
were  very  fond  of  Mr.  Lonely,  and  onc(^  ji  twice  a  week 
we  dined  at  the  Hall.  These  were  golduii  days  for  me. 
After  dinner  the  dear  child  would  lead  me  to  some  quiet 
corner  in  the  drawing-room,  and  there,  nestled  close  to 
my  side,  she  told  me  of  every  little  event  that  had  hap- 
pened since  our  last  meeting.  Often  Lady  Hardmoor 
and  Dorothea  walke^'.  over  to  the  cottage,  bringing  us 
fruit  or  flowers,  a  new  book,  or  a  review  that  contained 
some  article  to  interest  the  curate,  and  when  the  weather 
was  fine  they  joined  us  in  our  rambles  or  rowed  with  us 
on  the  river. 

During  the  long  winter  evenings  the  curate  read  aloud, 
or,  in  a  more  sentimental  mood,  sat  for  an  hour  at 
the  piano  playing  the  music  of  Mozart  or  Mendels- 
sohn, his  face  full  of  inspiration  and  his  fine  eyes 
tender  with  some  sweet  memory.  He  taught  me  chess, 
and  soon  I  became  quite  a  formidable  opponent.  Many 
an  evening  while  the  winter  storm  raged  without,  we 
sat  over  the  board  making  our  respective  moves  with  not 
a  sound  to  break  the  silence  save  the  ticking  of  the  clock 


(^®5%SSSS$*Sv^ 


'    i 


80 


THK  STOllY    OK    AN    KNTIIimiAHT. 


ami  the  purriiiK'  of  the  cat.  Hiit,  1  think,  of  a'.l  our 
oviMiings  I  likt'il  tliose  host  when  he  road  aloiul.  From 
hearing  his  hcaiitil'ul  voice  repcatinK  the  Huhlinif  pas- 
sagos  of  Milton  and  Shakespeare,  1  became  familiar 
with  and  learned  to  love  both  of  those  glorious  authors, 
and  later,  when  I  undcrslood  Greek  and  Latin,  what  a 
new  world  of  heroism  and  divine  sacrifice  he  .ronght 
before  mo  in  the  noble  epics  of  the  classic  writers. 
Under  his  excellent  training,  my  intellectual  growth  was 
rapid.  He  often  said  that  I  drank  in  knowledge  as  the 
tliirsty  soil  drinks  iu  rain.  This  constant  associiation 
with  him  was  continual  instruction,  and,  like  Dante,  I 
followed  my  gentle  teacher  and  guide,  loving  and  learn- 
ing as  I  went. 

1  had  not  been  many  days  at  the  cottage  before  I  no- 
ticed that  every  evening,  at  the  hour  of  sunset,  ttio  curate 
was  in  the  habit  of  visiting  the  graveyard.  I  saw  his 
tall  figure  cross  the  little  enclosure  where  it  sloped 
toward  the  river,  and  there,  n  the  shadow  of  a  clump  of 
laurel,  he  would  remain  some  time,  and  when  he  ap- 
peared his  face  was  beautiful  with  the  tender  smile  of 
one  who  had  just  left  the  presence  of  his  beloved. 

Of  course,  I  soon  made  my  pilgrimage  to  this  sacred 
spot,  prompted  by  curiosity  as  well  as  an  interest  in  all 
that  concerned  my  teacher.  In  the  sliadow  of  the  t  vws 
was  a  slender  marble  slab,  almost  covered  by  ivy,  but 
under  the  leaves  I  discovered  the  simple  inscription, 

Alice.    Aged  20. 

On  the  15th  of  each  May,  during  all  the  years  that  I 
lived  with  Mr.  Lonely,  he  was  invisible  to  every  one. 
He  spent  that  day  alone  in  his  room,  and  .what  passed 
there  was  kuowu  only  to  God  and  himself,    With  the 


I  AST. 

ink,  of  all  our 
d  aloud.  From 
lie  Hnbliim'  pas- 
jecanie  familiar 
[lorious  authors, 
d  Livtin,  what  a 
itioe  lie  Drought 
classsio  writers, 
•tual  growth  was 
uowledgf!  as  the 
itant  asanciiatioii 
id,  like  Dante,  I 
oviug  and  Icarn- 

age  bof'^re  I  no- 
luuset,  tlie  curate 
y^ard.  I  saw  his 
where  it  sloped 
ow  of  a  clump  of 
,nd  when  he  ap- 
tender  smile  of 
is  beloved. 
;e  to  this  sacred 
\n  interest  in  all 
idow  of  the  t iiH'3 
ered  by  ivy,  but 
.e  inscription, 


the  years  that  I 
ble  to  every  oue. 
and  .what  passed 
raself,    With  the 


DORFiTflKA. 


81 


exceptlou  Oi  these  periods,  the  ruratc  was  asocial,  choer- 
f.il  companion.  He  loved  nature  under  all  its  phases, 
and  he  gradiuilly  acicustonunl  me  to  long  walks  aiul 
rides  in  the  most  severe  weather.  Lord  Hardmo-.r  gave 
me  a  tine  little  mare,  and  mounted  on  her,  beside  the 
(•urate  on  his  strong  cob,  1  lovCd  to  dash  over  hills  and 
downs  with  a  strong  north-east<'r  in  our  faces.  I  was 
always  intoxicated  with  the  wind.  It  liad  a  peculiarly 
exhilarating  effect  upon  me,  and  the  frc*,  swift  nu)tlon 
added  to  tlu-  pleasurable  excitement  of  those  long  ridf^s. 
At  seventeen,  under  Mr.  Lonely's  skilful  training,  I 
had  so  improved  in  health  and  developed  in  form  that 
not  a  trace  of  my  former  delicate  comliticMi  remained. 
I  was  tall,  brown,  and  muscular;  and  Dnretlu^a,  the 
sweet  little  flatterer,  said  1  was  the  handsomest  boy  in 

the  county. 

Was  I  less  a  dreamer,  less   an  enthusiast?     I  think 
m,  character  was  nnn-e  composed  and  reasonable,  more 
pnu'tical  and  philosophical ;  my  simple,  hardy,  busy  life 
left  me  little  time  for  poetic  fancies,  and  there  was  no  ' 
art  atmosphere,  no  association  with  pictures,  no  talk  of 
the  divine  gift,  to  awaken  my  old  longings.     When  I 
went  to  Hardmoor  HaU  I  never  visited  the  picture  gal- 
lery.    In  looking  over  the   jmriodicals   of  the   time,  I 
avoided  the  criticisms  and  descriptions  of  works  of  ai-t 
which   the   world   pronounced    wonderful.      1    tried   to 
forget  my  ambitious  dreams,  and  carefully  drew  a  veil 
over  that  episode  in  my  life  that  had  resulted  so  sadly, 
so  near  fatally,  for  me.    It  was  a  tender  spot,  which,  I 
felt,  would  ache  at  the  slightest  touch,  and  I  had  no  de- 
sire to  suffer  again.     But  at  times  some  exquisite  scene 
in  nature  would  rekindle  the  old  fire  in  my  benumbed 
soul,  and  fill  it  with  the  old  pain.    The  mysterious  eyes 


83 


TUB  HTOUY   OK    .»N    KNTIHTSlAftT. 


of  my  lost  i)ict,uro  would  look  al  iu(^  veproachfully,  and 
the  nli-adiuK  voic«  would  luuiMiuir  pitcouHlv  at  the  our  of 
my  hoart;  but  I  woidd  not  listou.  Lik«  one  poss^'ssod 
by  some  rostlcHS  Bpiiit,  I  would  l."iry  ovev  hills  and 
moors,  or  ri.lo  in  tlui  faco  of  tho  wino  o'  -r  drco  downs, 
or  I  would  m-izo  my  oais  iwA  pull  -swiftly  U>wn  the 
rivor  until  tho  dashiuK  water  drowned  the  ;;,vi  complain- 
ing  that  disturbed  sno, 

VITl. 

DiiKiNO  the  Ihr.-..  yoars  that  I  had  Veon  with  the 
,!urate,  gr.Mit  chang.M  had  tal«^ii  place  at  the  Uect(n-y. 
My  uncle  had  marrii'd  again.  Tho  only  daughter  of  a 
rich  nianufiwjtnrt.  ;  rnopted  the  (V-lle  little  man,  be- 
cause he  was  Lord  Uavdnu.or's  brother,  and  might  ut 
time  Buocoed  to  the  title.  Clarence  and  Ernest  had 
gone  to  Eton,  ami  tiio  younger  boys  had  a  tutor  at  home  ; 
80  Mr.  Lonely  and  I  were  loft  to  ourselves,  which  was 
not  unpleasant  to  either  of  us. 

On  the  15th  of  May,  the  day  of  the  curate's  seclusion, 
I  went  to  my  room  to  examine  a  box  of  books.     They 
had  belonged  to  my  father,  and  had  just  been  discovered 
in  some  of  the  revolutions  at  the  Rectory.     For  some 
time  I  stood  irresolute,  not  knowing  whether  it  were 
best  to  revive  old  memories  by  a  sight  of  these  precious 
relics  of  my  childhood.     At  last  I  summoned  courage, 
and  opened  the  books  one  by  one    reverently.     They 
were  the  works  my  father  had  read  most,  and  were  much 
worn,  and  full  of  wnarginal  notes.   As  1  looked  them  over 
my  tears  flowed  freely,  for  it  seemed  as  though  he  spoke 
to  me  from  the  pages. 
Near  the  bottom  of  the  box  I  came  across  a  handsome 


I  AST. 

proiiohfiilly,  "ii'li 
hIv  at  th«  ear  of 
,e  one  jm^hhcswmI 
ovev  hillH  and 
'1-  droo'  •  downs, 
iviftly  li'Wn  the 
he  ii.vi  oomplaiii- 


i  beon  with  tlifi 
at  th«>  Unctory. 
ly  (huighfiT  of  a 
a  little  man,  be- 
ar, and  might  in 
and  Ernest  had 
a  tutor  at  liome  ; 
lelvea,  which  was 

lurato'a  seclusion, 

of  books.     Tliey 

it  been  discovered 

ctory.     For  some 

whether  it  were 

of  these  precious 

immoned  courage, 

reverently.     They 

)st,  and  were  much 

.  looked  them  over 

is  though  he  spoke 

across  a  handsome 


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DOKKTIIKA. 


83 


book  clasped  with  eiigravtul  silver;  on  opening  it,  T  saw, 
nuu'U  to  my  surprise,  that  it  was  a  jonrnal  in  my  father's 
handwriting,  and  the  date  ou  the  iirst  page  was  the 
(lav  of  his  marriage. 

i  began  to  read  it  standing,%3  I  had  taken  it  from  the 
box  ;  then,  entirely  forgetful  of  time  and  jdace,  1  i.aeed 
my  room,  my  eyes  fixed  on  the  pages,  and  my  heart 
tlirobbing  painfully.  At  last,  uneonseiously  I  sank 
down  on  the  edge  of  my  bed,  still  devouring  this  reeord 
of  my  father's  daily  life,  aiul  it  seeme"d  as  though  eaeh 
word  was  addressed  to  me  with  startling  emphasis. 
Sometimes  when  he  referred  to  me  tenderly,  as  his 
precious  treasure,  his  darling  child,  his  hope  for  the 
future,  I  buried  my  face  in  my  pillow  and  wept  freely ; 
then  I  read  again,  never  losing  a  sentence  or  a  word, 
while  the  tears  I  shed  dried  on  my  hot  cheeks.  At  one 
date,  shortly  after  his  return  to  I'aris,  he  made  the  fol- 
lowing entry:  — 

«  Oct.  7.  — It  seems  as  though  all  good  and  beautiful 
things  were  coming  to  me  with  my  darling  wife.  To- 
day I  have  seen  a  wonderful  picture,  an  exquisite  head 
of  Raidiael.  M.  Michelet  has  been  with  me  to  see  it, 
and  he  pronounces  it  an  undoubted  work  of  the  great 
master.  His  oiiinion  decides  me  in  ray  own  conviction, 
known  as  he  is  to  be  the  first  connoisseur  in  Europe. 
It  is  our  ardent  desire  to  possess  a  picture  by  this  be- 
loved master ;  and  if  I  can  purchase  it,  I  shall  do  so, 
although  there  is  some  obscurity  about  its  history.  It 
evidently  belongs  to  the  period  of  loOo,  and  was  doubt- 
less painted  at  the  time  when  the  Duke  Guidobaldo  I., 
in  returning  thanks  to  Henry  VII.  for  the  order  of  the 
Garter,  presented  him  with  the  St.  George,  which  the 
duke  ordered  expressly  from  liaphael,  with  the  iiijunc- 


84 


THE   STOUY   OP   AN   ENTIH^SfAST. 


tion  to  paint  tho  insignia  of  the  order  on  the  left  leg  of 
tlie  saint.  (Juntoniponiry  historians  speak  of  a  portrait  of 
the  great  master,  painted  hy  hiinseli',  \vlii(!h  accompanied 
the  St.  George  to  England.  Su(di  a  pietnre  is  iiowheri! 
to  be  found  anion ;  *-iie  ooll<ictions  of  that  country  ;  what 
is,  tlien,  more  reasonable  than  to  suppose  that  it  is  now 
in  France.  Doubtless,  during  some  of  the  negotiations 
between  the  courts  of  France  and  England,  this  pictur(> 
was  sent  as  a  gift  (n-  bribe  by  an  English  monarch  to 
a  French  king  or  (picen.  And  what  makes  this  supposi- 
tion more  i)lausible  is  that  the  picture  has  descended  in 
a  direct  line  from  one  of  the  ministers  of  Louis  XV. 
Tlie  last  n\end)er  of  this  now  impoverished  family  wishes 
to  sell  this  wonderful  work  of  art  at  a  reasonable  valua- 
tion, and  my  attention  has  been  called  to  it  by  a  friend, 
who  believes  it  to  be  a  veritable  Ka]>hael." 

Some  weeks  later  he  writes,  after  noting  the  price  he 
l)aid  for  it,  and  some  details  of  its  transfer  :  — 

"  At  last  this  wonderful  picture  is  ours,  and  we  are  de- 
lighted with  our  good-fortune.  Some  might  think  me 
unwise  to  i)ay  so  much  for  this  small  canvas,  but  I  am 
more  than  satisfied  to  own  sucli  a  treasure.  And  my 
dear  wife  shares  my  happiness;  she  can  scarcely  leave 
the  picture,  she  is  so  enraptured  with  it.  It  has  a  pow- 
erful fascination  for  her.  That  in  itself  is  a  strong 
proof  of  the  unequalled  genius  of  the  divine  master." 

A  few  weeks  after  my  birth,  he  says  :  — 

"  The  Raphael  has  transformed  my  home  into  a  temple 
of  art,  so  many  worshippers  are  coming  to  offer  their 
homage.  .  .  .  How  wonderful  is  the  influence  it  exercises 
over  all  who  see  it.  It  seems  to  glow  and  throb  with 
life,  the  life  that  genius  gives  to  the  inanimate.  .  .  .  Day 
after  day  I  lift  my  baby  to  a  level  with  the  beautiful, 


L.. 


irART. 


noUKTIlKA. 


85 


1  the  left  leg  of 
k  of  a  iiorti'ait  of 
lich  aconipaiiieil 
itiire  is  nowhere 
it  country  ;  what 
!e  that  it  is  now 
the  ncf^otiations 
and,  this  pietun^ 
;lisli  nionarcli  to 
Ices  this  supjjosi- 
las  descended  in 
's  of  Louis  XV. 
led  family  wishes 
reasonable  valua- 
0  it  by  a  friend, 
el." 

ing  the  price  he 
fer :  — 

rs,  and  we  are  de- 
might  think  me 
janvas,  but  1  am 
asure.  And  my 
m  scarcely  leave 
;.  It  has  a  pow- 
iself  is  a  strong 
divine  master." 

inie  into  a  temple 
ig  to  offer  their 
uence  it  exercises 
and  throb  with 
limate.  .  .  .  Day 
th  the  beautiful, 


oarnost  face,  so  tliat  he  may  milice  it  from  the  very  first, 
and  drink  in  its  influence  witli  his  mother's  milk.  I 
wisli  it  to  be  associated  with  his  earliest  memories,  to- 
gether with  his  mother's  face  and  mine.  .  .  .  We  bring 
him  to  it  as  to  the  shrine  of  a  saint,  and  invoke  the 
genius  and  virtues  of  the  divine  Raphael  for  our  child." 

On  another  page  he  says :  — 

"This  morning  our  little  Felix  laid  his  tiny  finger  on 
the  lips  of  the  IJaphael  and  smiled  ;  then,  leaning  forward, 
he  touched  it  with  his  rosy  mouth  as  if  it  were  a  living 
face.  We  feel,  on  looking  at  him,  as  if  he  had  been  con- 
secrated to  art.  .  .  .  Although  only  a  baby,  he  loves  the 
picture;  he  stretches  out  his  little  arms  and  cooes  and 
smiles  at  it  in  the  same  eager  joyful  way  tliat  he  greets 
his  mother." 

Here  and  there  such  sentences  as  the  following  filled 
my  heart  to  overflowing ;  they  seemed  like  prayers  from 
the  lips  of  the  dead. 

"  It  is  the  fondest  wish  of  my  heart  that  my  boy 
should  live  to  be  an  artist.  The  love  of  art,  which  was 
thwarted  in  me,  will  perhaps  find  expression  in  him.  .  .  . 
To  see  my  son  a  great  painter  would  reconcile  me  to  my 
own  failure.  .  .  .  The  love  of  art  was  born  with  me,  and 
1  feel  that  I  have  transmitted  it  to  him.  God  grant  that 
it  may  not  be  to  him,  as  it  has  been  to  me,  but  an  inheri- 
tance of  sorrow.  ...  If  he  lives,  he  shall  follow  the  incli- 
nation of  his  own  heart ;  his  talents  shall  not  be  thwarted 
and  stunted  by  adverse  influences,  as  mine  were.  ...  If  I 
am  not  permitted  to  see  him  settled  in  life,  I  shall  rejoice 
in  heaven,  if  it  is  given  us  to  know  aught  of  earth  there, 
if  my  son  has  the  strength  and  courage  to  throw  off  the 
shackles  of  society  in  order  to  follow  so  worthy  a  profes- 
sion. ...  I  would  rather  have  him  listen  to  the  voice  of 


,».>iirt^ja.a?a 


a-i 


.mmmm^"'<'Msi'^^*T" 


86 


THE  HTOKY   OF   AN    KNTHI'SIAST. 


liis  soul,  and  devote  his  life  to  the  devidopiiieiit  of  the 
talents  God  gives  him,  tlian  to  see  him  a  king  upon  a 
throne." 

After  my  mother's  death  he  writes  with  touching  sad- 
ness:— 

"  My  boy  is  all  I  have  left.  All  my  worldly  hopes  are 
centred  in  him.  He  is  like  his  mother,  endowed  with 
her  beauty,  her  tender,  refined  nature,  her  love  of  every- 
thing excellent.  Even  now,  at  his  age,  I  can  see  plainly 
that  he  lias  inherited  her  enthusiastic,  impetuous  tem- 
perament as  well  as  the  talent  that  may  be  fatal  to  his 
happiness.  Oh;  if  I  were  not  doomed  to  the  grave! 
If  I  were  not  torn  to  pieces  with  a  desire  to  be  at  rest  by 
her  side  and  an  equally  strong  desire  to  stay  with  my 
boy,  I  might  be  the  guide  and  support  of  this  exquisite 
nature,  so  unfitted  to  battle  with  the  cruel  realities  of 
life." 

On  the  last  page,  written  the  day  before  his  death,  he 
says,  as  if  the  premonition  of  the  end  was  strong  upon 
him :  — 

"I  know  that  soon,  too  soon,  he  will  be  alone.  My 
lamb,  my  tender  lamb !  who  will  temper  the  wind  to  thee 
•when  I  am  gone  ?  1  leave  thee  to  the  God  of  the 
fatherless,  in  the  firm  trust  that  he  will  protect  thee  and 
keep  thee  in  the  paths  of  virtue  and  truth,  and  I  know  I 
shall  not  be  forgotten.  My  instructions  for  his  future, 
which  I  have  imparted  to  him  as  well  as  I  could  with- 
out wounding  his  tender  heart,  or  causing  him  useless 
pain  aiul  anxiety,  will,  I  am  confident,  be  kept  sacred  in 
his  memory,  and  all  my  wishes,  hopes,  and  ambitions  for 
liim  will  be  fulfilled.  My  voice  Avill  speak  to  his  soul ; 
death  cannot  silence  it.  I  love  him  so,  I  so  desire  his 
truest  happiness,  that  even  the  grave  will  not  sever  the 


16W„_^ 


ISIAST. 


nORKTilKA. 


87 


velopiiieiit  of  the 
ill!  a.  king  upon  a 

nth  touching  sad- 
worldly  hopes  are 
ler,  endowed  with 
her  love  of  every- 
,  I  can  see  plainly 
c,  impetuous  tem- 
ly  be  fatal  to  his 
ed  to  the  grave ! 
ire  to  be  at  rest  by 
to  stay  with  my 
of  this  exquisite 
cruel  realities  of 

fore  his  death,  he 
was  strong  upon 

ill  be  alone.  My 
iv  the  wind  to  thee 
3  the  God  of  the 
11  protect  thee  and 
•uth,  and  I  know  I 
lus  for  his  future, 

as  I  could  with- 
,using  him  useless 

be  kept  sacred  in 
,  and  ambitions  for 

speak  to  his  soul ; 
30,  I  so  desire  his 
will  not  sever  the 


tender  bond  that  binds  us  together.  IIo  will  listen  to  \\w 
when  I  am  no  more ;  ho  will  love  what  1  love  and  strive 
to  obey  my  wishes.  1  leave  him  the  assurance  of  my 
undying  love,  together  with  my  greatest  earthly  treasure, 
my  Kaphael,  knowing  that  he  will  never  forget  the  one 
nor  part  with  the  other." 

When  I  finished  reading  this  record  of  my  father's 
hopes  and  wishes,  with  the  touching  evidence  of  his 
great  love  for  me,  I  felt  as  though  he  had  appeared  from 
the  grave  and  spoken  to  me  in  the  most  emphatic  lan- 
guage. At  times  I  wept  bitterly;  tears  of  passionate 
sorrow  drenched  my  face,  while  moans  and  sobs  broke 
from  my  full  heart.  I  was  crushed  with  rrtnorse  and 
penitence.  I  was  unworthy  of  his  love,  his  anxious  care 
for  my  future.  I  had  neglected  the  solemn  commands 
he  gave  me  with  his  last  breath,  had  resolutely  silenced 
the  haunting  voice  that  urged  me  to  obedience.  I  had 
been  weak  and  wavering.  I  had  trifled  with  the  divine 
gift  and  tried  to  hide  it  even  from  my  own  soul.  But  it 
was  not  too  late  to  make  amends.  Thank  God !  it  was  not 
too  late  to  obey  his  wishes.  That  book  had  been  sent  to 
me  to  show  me  my  father's  heart,  to  arouse  me  from  the 
mental  torpor,  the  stupid  content  into  wliich  I  had 
fallen,  to  show  me  emphatically  that  I  must  follow  the 
career  he  had  designed  for  me.  The  words  he  had 
written  so  many  years  before  sounded  in  my  ears  like 
the  blast  of  a  trumpet  calling  me  to  immediate  action. 

« I  must  begin  now,"  I  cried ;  "I  will  begin  at  once. 
The  power  within  me  is  not  dead ;  it  only  sleeps,  and  it 
will  awaken  at  these  loud  demands.  Oh,  my  father !  for- 
give me.  I  have  disobeyed  you.  For  three  long  years 
I  have  struggled  with  myself  to  kill  my  love  for  the 
beautiful,  to  crush  the  natural  desires  of  my  soul.     Once 


"vm. 


8d  THE  KTOIiY   OV    AN    KNTIU'STAST. 

I  tried  to  r.,ll(.w  tlu-.n,  au.l  I  w.s  lluviirto.l,  baffliul  at 
every  turn,  until  I  tLuuglit  that  in  urd.-r  t..  hvc  and 
save  .ny  r.ason  1  naist  forgot  the  past  and  nutrk  out  a 
r  A  lor  n.y  unwilling  fe.t.     W-   '   to       uuo  t^J 

they  robl...d  n.c  of  the  treasure  y-^;^"V'"Vl  1  d 
picture  that  wouhl  have  been  an  .nspiration  .  If  1  h-  d 
had  that  always  before  lue,  I  eould  not  have  iorgotten. 
i:l;i;i.los^andinuvy  never  hud  it.  ^ot  c.  y^^ 
but  saerilieed,  degraded  by  the  natne  of  a  --"-  ^^^j 
liut  I  will  search  for  it ;  1  swear  to  you  that  1  wdl  search 

for  it  until  I  lind  it."  ■  ■       e  ,«,. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  1  had  reached  the  cr.sis  of   m 
life;  my -father's   words   sounded   i.nperatively  tout 
urging   n,e   to   action.     Something   n>ust   be   done,  but 
what  ^     How  could  1  change  the  routine  of  my  life  at  a 
moment's  warning  V     I   was  in  a  fever  of  exciten.n 
My  eyes  burned  with   scahling  tears,  my  throat    ^uu, 
parched,  n.y  limbs  tren.bling,  as  I  paced  the  floor  with 

"^SltlHo  to  Mr.  Lonely  for  advice.     It  was  the 
day  that   none,  even  though  his  need  we^e  t;r^"'^VP'-«- 
sumed  to  intrude  upon  his  seclusion.     Hester  knocked  at 
my  door,  and  told  me  it  was  long  past  my  dinner  hour. 
I  said  I  was  ill  and  could  not  eat ;  she  went  away  grum- 
bling, and   I  resumed   my  anxious   questioning.     How 
shall  I  be-nn?     Once  more  I  read  my  father's   words, 
p  f  ing  t;  reflect  on  my  new  resolution.     "There  is  a 
glorious  career  for  me,"  I  said  to  myself ;  "my  father 
foresaw    it.     Only   yesterday  I   scoffed   at  destiny      I 
scorned  my  old  dreams,  and  called  them  illusions,  childish 
illnsions,  now  •      sonl  is  full  of  them  again      There  are 
such  things  as  ,enins,  art,  and  glory  ;  my  father  speaks 
of  them  from  his  grave,  and  1  must  seek  for  them.     It 


littmi 


<l.\sT. 


DOItKTMKA. 


89 


varteil,  haffloil  ;it 
(Icr  to  live  iuul 
iiiul  niiirk  out  ii 
1  to  bliiiuc  that 
I  U'I't  iiu',  oi"  the 
ition?  If  1  liiwl 
t  have  I'orgottoii. 
Not  only  gone 
'  a  uunvnt'i"  artist. 
I  that  1  will  search 

the  crisis  of  my 
pcrativi'ly  to  me, 
uat  be  done,  but 
ne  of  my  life  at  a 
TV  of  excitement. 
■i,  my  throat  was 
jed  the  floor  with 

Ivice.     It  was  the 
id  were  great,  pre- 
Hester  knocked  at 
it  my  dinner  hour, 
e  went  away  gruni- 
qnestioning.     How 
ny  father's  words, 
tion.     "There  is  a 
lyself;  "my  father 
[fed   at  destiny.     I 
m  illusions,  childish 
1  again.     There  are 
;  my  father  speaks 
seek  for  them.     It 


is  tlie  inheritance  he  left  nie ;  he  himself  bequeathed  to 
me  this  longing  of  the  soul,  this  desire  that  I  cannot 
kill.  My  i'allier!  my  latliev!  1  have  been  dull,  sense- 
less, deaf,  blind  !  l'>ut  I  will  begin  now  to  seek  for  truth  ; 
I  will  dev(jte  the  remainder  of  my  life  to  the  calling  you 
loved  and  vevereiuied." 

With  my  impulsive  nature,  I  was  idways  a  slave  to  the 
idea  of  the  moment.  I  eould  not  wait  calmly  until  the 
next  day  to  consult  with  my  teacher.  1  felt  an  impera- 
tive need  to  rush  at  once  into  action,  to  begin  my  new 
career,  to  discard  my  old  dnties,  to  leave  my  i)resent 
course  of  studies  and  to  plunge  at  once  into  my  new  life. 
I'aris,  my  father's  favorite  haunts,  his  friends,  the  old 
days  as  fresh  and  bemitiful  as  ever,  all  returned  to  mo 
uit,h  wonderfid  vividness.  The  years  between  were 
blotted  out  with  one  stroke,  and  no  other  life  than  that 
of  my  childhood  seemed  possible  to  mc  now. 

I  looked  from  the  window  ;  alre;uly  the  day  was  gone. 
The  sun  was  throwing  his  last  rays  over  the  quiet 
ehurch-yard ;  a  fresh  breez(!  bent  the  willows  and  poplars. 
'•  I  will  go  out,"  I  said.  "The  wind  will  cool  my  fever 
and  calm  my  troubled  spirit."  I  rushed  from  the  cot- 
tage and  hurried  away  over  the  desolate  moor.  In  the 
face  of  the  wind,  under  the  serene  light  of  the  stars,  I 
stormed  over  the  hills  and  downs,  imiielled  by  some 
resistless  power.  At  last,  exhausted  by  my  rapid  walk, 
my  fasting,  and  my  mental  sutYering,  1  returned  to  the 
cottage.  The  lights  were  tmt;  all  was  silent.  It  was 
past  midnight.  I  had  wandered  for  hours,  and  it  seemed 
as  though  I  hatl  been  absent  but  a  little  time. 

During  my  broken  slumbers,  suspended,  as  it  were, 
between  sleeping  and  waking,  a  shadowy  form  seemed 
to  stand  by  my  bed.     It  was  my  father,  and,  looking  at 


-~:^s^m:t&!^^^^ss^&&ss&;^si. 


90 


THK  8TOUY   OK   AN    KNTHL'SIAST. 


,nc  rcproacl.  fully,  he  pointtnl  into  a  mystm-ious  dist.tuoi', 
whero  beamed  a  li^l.t  I  could  not  look  ui-on.  1  tried  to 
kneel  before  hiui,  to  clasp  and  kias  his  hands,  but  he  re- 
pulsed  me  coldly,  saying,  ii.  tones  that  chilled  me,  M 
know  you  not;  you  ar.  not  my  child."  The,,,  in  an. 
agony  of  grief,  I  awoke.  My  heart  seemed  to  have 
turned  to  stone ;  groat  drops  of  sweat  rolled  down  my 
face;  I  looked  around  wildly, -already  the  gray  dawn 
was  creeping  into  my  room. 

At  breakfast  the  curate  perceived  that  I  was  in  trou- 
ble.    My  haggard  face  and  disturbed  manner  betrayed 

1T16 

"What  is  the  matter,  Felix  ?  "  he  asked,  kindly ;  "  are 

you  ill?"  •      f      T 

Leaving  my  food  untouched,  without  answering  liim,  i 

rose  from  the  table,  and,  throwing  myself  on  the  sofa,  I 
covered  my  face  and  burst  into  tears.  In  every  ex- 
tremity of  my  life,  tears  have  been  the  natural  relief  to 
my  overburdened  lieait. 

When  I  was  calmer,  :Mr.  Lonely  came  and  sat  beside 
me,  and,  putting  his  arm  around  me,  he  said,  gently, 
"  Now,  my  dear  boy,  tell  me  your  trouble." 

I  was  ready  to  unburden  my  sutTering  heart  at  the 
first  word  of  kindness,  and  like  a  freed  torrent  I  began 
pourin"  rapi.Uy  and  half  incoherently  all  the  story  of 
my  sorrows  into  his  willing  ears.  I  told  him  first  of  my 
love  for  the  wonderful  picture,  and  its  sacrifice,  of  my 
desire  to  be  an  artist,  of  my  efforts  a  few  years  before, 
and  of  the  dreadful  check  given  to  my  childish  aspira- 
tions by  my  uncle,  which  resulted  in  my  almost  fatal 
illness,  and,  since,  how  I  had  tried  to  forget  it  all  and 
to  be  happy  in  my  new  life.  Then  I  laid  the  journal 
before  him.     ''  .See ! "  I  cried ;  "  there  are  bis  own  words, 


iiiWiiiMf'in''iii'iy''^^^'^*''''''*''""''^*''''''' 


lAST. 

tii'ious  dist.iuoi', 
poll.  I  trm\  to 
;iii(1h,  'out  he  re- 

chilUul  me,  "  I 
."  Then,  in  an 
jeemed  to  have 
lolled  down  my 

tho  gray  dawn 

it  I  was  in  tron- 
11  aimer  betrayed 

ed,  kindly,  "are 

answering  him,  I 
ilf  on  the  sofa,  I 
I.  In  every  ex- 
natural  relief  to 

le  and  sat  beside 
he   said,  gently, 
lie." 

•ing  heart  at  the 
,  torrent  I  began 
'  all  the  story  of 
Id  him  first  of  my 
ts  sacrifice,  of  my 
few  years  before, 
y  childish  aspira- 
L  my  almost  fatal 
forget  it  all  and 
[  laid  the  journal 
are  his  own  words, 


DOIIKTIIKA. 


1>1 


;^ia»iii»rtWi«'mT>-ifffl-'i«ifM 


written  by  his  own  hand.  Ho  says  tliat  I  am  to  \w  an 
artist,  and  I  must  obey  him.  My  guardians  have  no 
right  to  prevent  me;  they  should  nut  disivganl  his 
solemn  commands.  My  father,  my  dear  dea-l  father, 
speaks  to  me,  and  I  know  ho  is  listening  in  Ktermty  lor 
my  answer,  and  my  own  soul  urges  me  to  b"gin.  The 
voice  I  heard  so  long  has  returned  again  — and  repeats 
over  and  over,  '  Begin  now,  begin  now.'  " 

"Try  to  be  calm,  Kelix,  and  listen  to  me,"  .said  the 
curate,' in  a  firm  voice;  "let  me  tell  you  a  little  of  »/// 
history,  and  then  you  may  be  better  able  to  jmlgo 
wheth'er  it  is  right  to  become  the  slave  of  your  desires, 
to  follow  with  heedless  impetuosity  tho  wishes  of  your 
own  heart,  while  you  disregard  tho  advice  of  those  who 
are  interested  in  you." 

«  But  my  father !  It  is  my  father  I  wish  to  obey ! 
Surely,  his  last  words  to  me  should  be  sacred  ! "  I  cried, 
passionately. 

"  Yes  ;  a  father's  commands  should  be  obeyed,  but  I 
question  whether  the  wishes  of  the  dead  should  como 
between  us  and  our  duty  to  the  living.     But  let  ine  tell 
you  of  the  bitter  punishment  I  have  suffered  for  follow- 
ing ray  own  headstrong  will.     Wlien  I  was  of  your  age,  I 
too  had  my  dreams  and  aspirations,  and  I  had  the  same 
vehement,  impulsive  nature.     I  loved  art;  my  soul  was 
full  of  glowing  fancies,  of  fame  and  future  glory.     I 
was  the  youngest  of  three  sous,  and  my  father  destined 
me  for  the  church.     Early  in  my  youth.  I  loved  a  dear 
and  gentle  girl,  the  only  child  of  the  former  rector  of 
Iladdingham,  and  we  were  betrothed.     Although  I  knew 
mv  father's  most  sacred  wish  was  to  see  me  a  pnest  ot 
the  Most   Higli,  I   went  through  my  collegiate  course 
with  the  secret  determination  to  follow  my  own  ineli- 


IRSSSSSSSS^^' 


<|'J  TMK  RTOUY   OK   AN    KNTIII'HIAHT. 

nation  uiul  booon..-  an  i.Hist  as  h..ou  as  1   was  Knuluat.-l. 
About  tbo  tin...    I    liLisl..'.!   n.y  st...li.H  ill  <>xl..nl,   tlu" 
m-torof  Ha.l.lin^'l.an.  .ii.'.l  an.l  l.-ft  his  dmiKlit.-r  poor 
,,„a  ,a..nc  iu  U...   wo.1.1.     Tl...  fovn.or  Lord  llanlmoor 
who  was  a  tVuMHl  ..!■  my  latluT.  olT.Mv.l  n...  the  living  o 
„,.l.linKhani  if   I    wonhl  lak..  o.-l-.s.     My  tutln«r  urgnl 
unci  imi.h.n..!.  an.l  Mi.',  joi.n.l  Wv  K.-ntU-  .nln"at,..s  to 
bis  for  th."  Poc^r  gill  was  obli«...l  to  aoeq.t  the  situation 
of  Kovcn.oss  in  a  hirt,'o  family  ;  but  1  wonhl  lisfn  t.,  no 
arK'Uinent  in  favor  of  th.-  .•huirh.      I  was  obstinately  vf 
Bolvod  to  follow  my  own  .■air..,.,  altl.ongh  fortnn.  s.-ome. 
to  smile  on  mo  by  off.-rinK  n..-  an  exeel lent   living  at 
once.     I  couM  have  married  Alice  ami  settle.l  .h.wn  to  a 
useful,  hapi-v  life,  but  I  was  possesse.!  witli  my  idea,  ami 
would  neither  listen  to  the  voice  of  reason  or  the  de- 
maiKls  of  my  own  heart.     1  refused  to  take  (U'ders,  and 
in  direct  opposition  to  my  father,  I  went  to  London  an.l 
beL'au  mv  art  studies  with  a  .udebrated  painter.     A  year 
passed  away  in  my  beloved  pursuit,  and  1   was  making 
rapid  strides  in  my  profession.     I  wrote  trequcnt  glow- 
ing  letters  to  Alice,  telling  her  of  my  bright  hopes  and 
the  proud  position  T  should  soon  have  to  olTer  her.     ller 
letters  to  me,  although  outwardly  cheerful,  had  an  u.i- 
dertonoof  sadness  and  weariness;  but  I,  m  my  selhsh 
occupation,  di.l  not  see  that  the  poor  child  was  killing 
herself  with  her  arduous  duties.     One  day  I  received  a 
letter  from  my  father,  the  first  for  many  months,  telling 
me  that  Alice  was  ill  and  to  hasten  to  her  with  all  possi- 
ble speed.     I  was  just  tiiiishing  my  Academy  picture; 
and  if  I  left  it,  1  could  not  exhibit  it  that  year.     With  a 
heartlessness  that  I  cannot  now  understand,  I  remaimnl 
two  days  after  receiving  that  letter,  in  order  to  complete 
iny  work,    lint  when  T  reached  her,  I  was  too  late  — she 


liAiijii 


■fi^dtJui^WNBi  iijM»MI1|iiilli'^  i-i^itf— 


ilAHT. 

I    \v:lH    ^{I'illlUilttMl. 

i  III  Oxi'.inl,   till' 
,S    llilUKl'ttT    li<>«'>' 

Lord  Ilanliuoor, 
iiu!  till!  liviiiK'  of 
My  liitht'i-  ur^'ftl 
itlc  fulri'iitica  to 
('lit  the  Hituation 
koiilil  listen  to  no 
:iis  obstinuti'ly  n;- 
irli  fortune  HftMUtMl 
xcellent   living  at 
settled  down  to  a 
with  my  idea,  and 
reason  or  the  ile- 
)  take  orders,  and, 
'lit  to  London  and 
I  painter.     A  year 
iiid  I   was  making 
ite  freijuent  glow- 
bright  hopes  and 
toolTerher.     Her 
leerful,  had  an  un- 
lit I,  in  my  selfish 
!•  cliiUl  was  killing 
)  day  I  received  a 
my  months,  telling 
)  her  with  all  possi- 
Aoademy  picture ; 
that  year.     With  a 
I'rstand,  I  remained 
n  order  to  complete 
was  too  late  —  ahe 


ItOUKTIIKA. 


98 


had  heon  dead  soiiu'  hours.      My  refusal  to  coiiu'  to  her 
UiUeil  her;  her  gnitle  heart  broke  under  the  cruel  blow. 
Here,"  h«  said,  taking  my  liand,  and  leading  me  to  tho 
picture  over  tlie  mantel-piece,  '•  lii're  is  my  last  work.     I 
painted  it  from  memory  after  lier  death  ;  llieii  I  mado  a 
grand   holocaust   of    everything    pertaining  to   my    art 
studies,  my  Academy  picture  and  all,   and  strewed  the 
ashes  on  her  grave.      Vour  uncle,  who.  in  the  meantime, 
had   decided    to   take  tin-  living  I    iiail  refused,  needed 
a   curate.      My   ambition    was    buried    with     her,   and 
1  had  no  other  wish  than  to  live  out  my  few  and  evil 
uays  near  her  last  resting-place;  therefore  I  took  urilers 
at  once,  and  accepted  your   uncle's  offer.     For  tifteen 
years    I  have  buried  my.self  here,  and   I  liave  wet  every 
blade  of  grass  on  her  grave  with  my  tears  of  repentance. 
Now,"  he  cried,  grasping  my  hand  passionately,  his  face 
pale  and  stern,  and  his  eyes  full  of  gloomy  sorrow,  '•  now 
that  1  have  told  you  of  my  folly,  will  thv.  punishment  I 
have  suH'ered  serve  as  a  warning  to  you  ?  or  do  you  still 
think  it  best  to  carry  out  your  own  iilans,  in  deliauce  of 
all  advice  to  the  contrary." 

"I  do,"  I  replied,  firmly.  "It  is  not  only  my  own 
desire,  but  the  cherished  wish  of  the  one  who  had  a 
right  to  dispose  of  my  future.  I  am  not  seltish  in  this. 
There  is  no  one  living  to  sufTer  from  my  resolution.  It 
concerns  mo  aloiu',  and  it  was  my  father's  dearest  hope 
on  earth,  aiul  1  feel  that  he  knows  to-day  that  I  have  not 
regarded  it.  I  am  full  of  remorse  for  neglecting  his 
last  wishes  so  long,  and  now,  in  spite  of  all  opposition, 
come  what  will,  I  must  obey  them." 

"Well,  I  cannot  control  you  in  this  matter,  nor  do  I 
wish  to.  You  must  do  as  your  own  conscience  and  your 
guardians'  judgment  dictate.     Neither  can  I  advise  you 


..^iHifeiixUtlttJJgJg' 


94 


THE  STORY   OK   AN  ENTHUSIAST. 


or  help  you.  The  whole  subject  is  hateful  to  me,  and  1 
l.e<'  of  you  never  to  mention  it  to  me  M<,';un.  Ami  never 
let' me  see  lu.y  of  the  apparatus  of  the  profession.  I 
have  a  horror  of  everything  pertainin-  to  it.  The  smell 
of  paint  overcomes  me  completely.  It  unnerves  me.  It 
is  a  weakness  I  will  admit,  hut  I  cainiot  help  it.  One 
who  had  murdered  a  fellow-creature  would  not  lik(> 
to   see    the    weapon    he    had     committed     the     crime 

with." 

"I  understand  you,  sir,"  I  said,  ctldly,  for  I  was  bit- 
terly disappointed  that  he  had  failed  me  in  this  extrem- 
ity. "  You  mean  that  yon  will  have  nothing  to  do  with 
this  matter,  that  I  am  not  to  come  to  you  for  advice  or 
assistance  in  carrying  out  my  plans,  and  that  you  will 
not  allow  me  to  paint  under  ye;ir  roof." 

"Yes;  I  mean  that  exactly,  and,  now  that  we  under- 
stand each  other,  we  will  not  refer  to  the  subject  again. 
Tn  everything  else  I  am  your  best  friend;  and,"  he 
added,  more  gently,  "  I  am  truly  sorry  that  I  cannot 

help  you  now." 

"Since  you  cannot,  I  must  see  Lord  Hardmoor  at 
once,"  I  replied,  firmly.  "Tliere  is  no  time  to  lose." 
And  without  another  word  I  left  the  cottage,  and  hurried 
through  the  park  to  Hardmoor  Hall. 


IX. 

Lord  Hart>moor  had  just  finished  his  last  cup  of  tea, 
and  was  looking  over  the  Tivu-s,  when  I  entered  the 
breakfast-room,  my  face  flushed,  my  manner  hurried  and 

excited. 

"  What  now  ?  "  he  asked,  looking  up  with  some  sur- 
prise.    "  You  enter  like  a  whirlwind." 


I. 


<'ill)Iiiminiil<i**iwi*«i'ii'»i"'''i'''ii''i" 


ENTHUSIAST. 

is  liiitcful  to  me,  and  1 
[)  mo  a<,';uii.  Ami  never 
s  of  tlK'  profession.  I 
aining  to  it.  The  smell 
y.  It  unnerves  me.  It 
I  cannot  help  it.  One 
reature  would  not  like 
committed     the     crime 

d,  ccldly,  for  I  was  bit- 
ailed  me  in  this  extrem- 
have  nothing  to  do  with 
me  to  you  for  advice  or 
plans,  and  that  you  will 
ir  roof." 

and,  now  that  we  under- 
ifer  to  the  subject  again, 
r  best  friend;  and,"  he 
■uly  sorry  that  I  cannot 

see  Lord  Hardmoor  at 
ere  is  no  time  to  lose." 
t  the  cottage,  and  hurried 
Hall. 


uished  his  last  cup  of  tea, 
VIC'S,  when  I  entered  the 
d,  my  manner  hurried  and 

Qoking  up  with  some  sur- 
.•Iwiud." 


DOHIOTHKA. 


05 


«I  wish  to  see  you  alone,  sir,"  I  replied,  in  a  resolute, 

strident  voice. 

Dorothea  glanced  at  me  uneasily,  and  Lady  Hardmoor 

said :  —  i  •       i 

"Why,  Felix,  you  seem  troubled.  Has  anything  hap- 
pened?" 

"Nothing   of    importance   to  any   one   but  myself, 
I    returned,   curtly.      "I    wish    to    see    my   guardian 

alone." 

"Very  well,"  said  Lord  PLardmoor,  laying  down  his 
paper  reluctantly.  "  Since  your  business  is  so  impera- 
tive, come  into  my  study,  and  I  will  hear  what  you  have 

to  say." 

Scarcely  was  the  door  closed  upon  us,  when  I  opened 
my  father's  journal,  and,  pointing  to  the  passages  I  had 
marked,  I  said  :  — 

"Head  this,  please,  and  then  you  will  understand  my 
father's  Avishes  regarding  my  future." 

Lord    Hardmoor    read   the    brief    sentences   with    a 
flushed,  uneasy  face;  and  when  he  had  finished,  he  laid 
the  book  down,  saying,  nervously  :  — 
"  Well,  what  next  ?  " 

He  evidently  wished  to  appear  cool  and  indifferent, 
but  I  coidd  detect  an  inward  anxiety. 

"First,* you  see,  sir,  that  what  I  told  you  about  the 
picture  was  correct ;  that  it  was  a  llaphael.  And  you 
have  sacrificed  it,"  I  replied,  bitterly,  "and  not  only 
deprived  me  of  a  treasure,  but  you  have  injured  the 
reputation  of  the  picture  by  ascribing  it  to  some  other 

artist." 

"Oh,  nonsense,  Felix!  don't  repeat  that  again.  A 
Raphael !  Why,  it  is  simply  absurd !  I  tell  you  it  was 
one  of  your  father's  foolish  ideas,  but  his  thinking  so 


jiiilLirmir"  ir"'-'-^-'-     « ■!■  ~.<.t«a«».  ■- 


-W' 


rsmsmvmxiva^!  h  j^jn^^^s^m  ^,ij  A^iS":  vx  u  gyg 


96 


THE  STORY   OF   AN  ENTHUSIAST. 


did  not  make  it  so.     It  did  not  even  sell  as  an  original 
Mantegna,  but  as  a  copy." 

"Do  you  know  who  bought  it?"  I  asked,  trembling 
with  indignation  at  his  contempt  of  my  father's  opin- 


ion 


"No.     How  should  1  ?     I  tlid  not  conduct  the  sale." 
"Then   you  will  nuike  no  ettort  to  recover  it?  " 
"rooh'l  pooh  !  don't  be  a  child,     llecover  it,  indeed! 

Why,  every  trace  of  it  was  lost  years  ago  ! " 

"Well,  it  does  not  matter.     If  I  live  T  will  find  it, 

even  though  I  spend  my  life  and  fortune  to  recover  it," 

I  replied,  resolutely.  ,  -rr     i 

"  Is  that  all  you  wish  to  say  to  me  ?  "  and  Lord  Hard- 
moor  got  up  as  though  he  thought  the  conference  wcs 

at  an  end. 

"  No,  sir.  I  came  to  tell  you  that  I  wish  to  begin  my 
art  studies,  which  were  interrupted  so  unfortunately  four 

years  ago."  . 

"Good  Heavens !  don't  start  that  subject  again.  You 
know  what  we  think  of  it,  and  you  remember  what  it 
led  to  once.  I  thought  you  had  grown  sensible  and 
dropped  that  absurd  fancy." 

"  It  is  not  an  absurd  fancy  to  me,"  I  replied,  firmly. 
"  It  was  my  father's  wish.     Therefore  it  is  sacred." 

"Your  father  did  not  understand  as  well  as  we  do 
what  is  best  for  you.  Your  uncle  and  I  have  other  plans 
for  you,  and  I  beg  of  you  not  to  refer  to  your  father  s 
visionary  schemes  again.  He  was  a  good  man,  but  he 
was  not  practical,  and  he  nearly  ruined  himself  with  his 
fantastic  ideas.  We  want  you  to  be  a  sensible,  useful 
man  :  to  devote  your  youth  to  proper  studies  and  your 
maturity  to  your  estate,  which  your  father  sadly 
neglected.    We  mean  to  act  for  your  best  interest,  and 


ijlHiu.miiiirtiiii'liiiiiai 


8IA«T. 

11  as  aa  original 

asked,  trembling 
ny  father's  opin- 

luluct  the  sale." 

cover  it  ?  " 

jcover  it,  indeed ! 

tgo!" 

/e  T  will  find  it, 

le  to  recover  it," 

"  and  Lord  Hard- 
le  conference  wcs 

wish  to  begin  my 
unfortunately  four 

bject  again.  You 
remember  what  it 
own  sensible  and 

'  I  replied,  firmly. 

it  is  sa(!red." 

as  well  as  we  do 

1  have  other  plans 
!•  to  your  father's 

good  man,  but  he 
id  himself  with  his 
!  a  sensible,  useful 
r  studies  and  your 
rour  father  sadly 
■  best  interest,  and 


DOllKTHEA. 


I'T 


it  is  n.ost  annoying  to  find  you  always  opposmg  out 
views.  Now,  go  back  to  your  lessons,  and  see  if  you 
lan't  get  ovJ  this  new  access  of  folly."  And  Lord 
Hardmoor  went  to  his  desk,  and  began  turning  over  some 
papers,  to  remind  me  that  the  interview  was  over,  and 

he  wished  to  be  alone.  .      ,        ,         •      „f„ 

I  could  not  endure  this  cool  dismissal,  and  my  impetu- 
ous temper  broke  all  bounds.     I  was  fearfully  in  earnest, 
and  this  trifiing  evasion   of  the  subject  maddened  me. 
Starting  to  my  feet,  1  cried,  in  a  voice  that  trembled  in 
soite  of  my  effort  to  control  it,  "  Lord  Hardmoor,  I  am 
.0  longer  a  child,  and  I  will  not  be  treated  as  one 
I  know  my  own  mind.    I  am  in  earnest,  and  I  will  not  be 
thwarted  and  opposed.     I  remember  all  that  Dr  Lang- 
ham  said  three  years  ago,  when  my  uncle's  cruelty  and 
your  severity  drove  me  almost  to  death,  or  worse  -  o 
insanity      You  have  not  forgotten  wliat  the  doctor  told 
vou  then      I  know  you  remember  it,  because  your  treat- 
ment since  has  been  considerate  and  kind.     I  escaped  a 
terrible  fate  then,  but   I  have  lived  and  recovered  my 
heat'    only  to  continue  the  struggle  that  I  was  then   oo 
weak  to  endure;  and  I  implore  you  not  to  make  it  too 
severe  for  me.     I  shall  never  appeal  to  my  uncle.     You 
al-Ithe  only  one  whose  counsel  and  assistance  I  can  ask 
If  you  refuse  to  listen  to  me,  I  shall  disobey  you  and 
defy  you.     You  cannot  imprison  either  my  body  or  my 
soul     I  shall  break  my  bonds  and  leave  England    or- 
ever    I  will  go  to  Paris  and  put  myself  under  Ure  protec- 
tion"of  my  father's  friends,  who  will  help  me  because  of 

their  love  for  him." 

"There,  that  will  do,"  Miterrupted  Lord  Hardmooi^ 
sternly.  "You  are  hot-headed  and  unreasonable.  I 
only  want  you  to  listen  to  common-sense.     God  knows  1 


■lilJMBiiailfitiffliWi'll 


'^v»"'i"<4'fe4iai-tteM,yiai-Uig.iiw-'^'i'"  i'  g''*'^ 


98 


TIIK   STOKY    OK   AN    ENTHUSIAST. 


don't  want  to  be  severe  with  you.  I  was  cured  of  tliat 
when  you  were  ill;  but  I  want  to  do  what  is  best  for 
your  future  happiuoss.  I  think  you  are  too  young  to  go 
abroad  to  study,  even  if  I  were  disposed  to  consent  to 
such  a  step.  Now,  let  us  try  to  settle  our  differences 
sensibly.  In  two  years  you  will  finish  your  course  of 
classics  with  ^Ir.  Lonely,  and  then  you  can  do  as  you 
please  Until  that  time,  if  you  wish  to  paint,  and  will 
not  allow  it  to  interfere  with  your  other  studies,  I  will 
do  all  I  can  to  give  you  a  chance." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you,"  I  cried,  clasping  his 
hand  eagerly  and  gratefully. 

«  There,  there,  young  volcano,  calm  yourself,  he  saul, 
withdrawing  his  hand  half  angrily,  half  gently,  "and 
don't  be  so  delighted  because  you  have  had  your  own 
way  You  are  the  most  impulsive  creature  I  ever  saw. 
For  heaven's  sake,  learn  to  control  yourself  if  you  don  t 
want  to  appear  ridiculous." 

"  I  am  so  glad,  so  grateful  to  you,"  I  replied,  humbly, 
and  half  ashamed  of  showing  what  I  felt.  "  Biit  where 
can  I  study  ?  ^Ir.  Lonely  is  not  willing  that  1  shoukl 
work  in  the  cottage." 

"What  objection  can  he  have  if  you  confine  your 
daubing  to  your  own  room?"  asked  Lord  Hardmoor, 

impatiently.  .,,     v     i 

"  He  says  the  smell  of  paint  makes  him  ill ;  he  does 
not  like  it,  and  I  should  not  wish  to  make  him  unconx- 

fortable."  , 

"Oh,  I  remember  there  was  a  story  of  his  killing  that 
poor  girl  by  taking  up  art,  and  leaving  her  to  work 
herself  to  death,  when  he  might  have  married  her  and 
had  the  living  of  Haddingham.  Remorse,  insteac  of  the 
smell  of  paint,  I  fancy.     I  don't  wonder  he  dislikes  it. 


iWimmitiwrtif-  i  I'' '    ''"^'" """" 


HHiMtlipii 


IST. 

cured  of  that 
hat  is  best  for 
JO  you'.ig  to  go 
L  to  consent  to 
our  differences 
your  course  of 
can  do  as  you 
paint,  and  will 
'  studies,  I  will 

d,  clasping  his 

irself,"  he  said, 
f  gently,  "and 
e  had  your  own 
ture  I  ever  saw. 
3lf  if  you  don't 

•oplied,  humbly, 
t.  "  liut  where 
IS  that  1  should 

)u  confine  your 
Lord  Hardmoor, 

him  ill ;  he  does 
lake  him  uncom- 

'  his  killing  that 
Qg  her  .  to  work 
married  her  and 
56,  instead  of  the 
ler  he  dislikes  it. 


DOIIKTIIKA. 


99 


You  see  what  a  pretty  mess  h.-'s  inado  of  his  life,  and 
I'd  advise  you  to  take  warning  by  it'." 

"I  will  try  to  please  you.  You'll  not  have  cause  to 
complain  of  me,"  1  said,  contritely,  "if  you  will  only 
think  of  some  place  where  I  can  study,  and  set  apart 
some    time,  with  Mr.  Lonely's  approval,  -  that  I  can 

be  sure  of.'  „ 

«I  don't  know  of  any  place  that  you  can  have  for 
your  exclusive  use,  except  that  little  lodge  at  the  east 
gate.  It's  near  the  cottage,  and  there's  a  good  window 
in  it  You  can  have  your  traps  there,  and  use  it  when 
vou  like.  I'll  have  it  put  in  order  for  you.  Give  me  a 
list  of  artist's  materials,  and  I  will  order  them  from 
town  Now,  let's  have  no  more  nonsense.  Go  to  your 
books  like  a  sensible  boy,  and  when  you  are  older  and 
disgusted  with  your  youthful  fancies,  you  wdl  see  that 
I  was  not  so  far  wrong  in  discouraging  thom. 

I  went  back  to  my  lessons  quite  satisfied.  Mr.  Lonely 
did  not  inquire  as  to  the  result  of  my  interview  with 
Lord  Hardmoor,  but  one  rapid  glance  at  my  contented 
fa^e  explained  as  well  as  words  could  have  done  that  the 
matter  was  settled  to  my  satisfaction. 

When  the  little  rustic  lodge,  with  its  pointed  roof  and 
octagon  walls,  was  in  order,  and  my  easel  set  up,  my 
paints  and  brushes  neatly  arranged,  I  was  more  than 
satisfied.     Lady  Har<lmoor  was  greatly  interested,  and 
she  and  Dorethea  insisted   on   hanging    some    pretty 
draperies  about,  and  arranging  a  few  pieces  of    antique 
furniture  and  scraps  of  old  china  in  the  most  artistic 
way.     At  last,  when  everything  was  ready  and  I  wa^ 
fairly  at  work  with  Dorethea's  pretty  face  for  a  mode  , 
I  felt  that  every  ambition  and  hope  was  about  to  be  tul- 
filled,  and  that  my  father  looked  on  with  approval  from 
his  home  above. 


■  ■  g^jjSas'i!.Mt!^.MJilttW)jife'JJW 


100 


THE   STOIIY   OF   AN  ENTHUSIAST. 


This  sudden  moriil  awaki-niiig  added  years  tj  ray 
hitliei'to  childish  character,  I  became  serious,  thought- 
ful, almost  reverential  in  my  devotion  to  my  duties.  I 
felt  the  solemn  responsihility  of  taking  my  destiny  in 
my  own  hands  as  it  were,  and  tried  by  every  means  to 
make  the  most  of  life  and  its  opjiortunities.  I  was 
strictly  conscientious  in  keeping  my  promise  to  Lord 
Hardmoor,  and  never  allowed  the  time  I  devoted  to 
painting  to  interfere  with  my  other  studies.  Mr.  Lonely 
was  quite  satisfied  with  tlie  progress  I  made  in  classics, 
and  Lady  Hardmoor  and  Dorethea  were  enthusiastic 
over  my  pictures. 

The  dear  little  maiden  was  very  clever  in  devising  a 
variety  of  subjects  in  "  still-life  "  for  my  pencil.  There 
was  a  collection  of  rare  bronzes  and  casts  at  the  Hall, 
which  Lord  Hardmoor  objected  to  having  disturbed,  but 
Dorethea,  with  her  persuasive  ways,  soon  overcame  his 
scruples,  and  one  by  one  some  very  serviceable  models 
found  their  way  to  my  little  den. 

There  was  one  thing  1  particularly  coveted  as  a  study. 
It  was  a  cast  of  a  grotesque  mask  taken  from  one  of  the 
friezes  by  Sansovino  in  the  Ductal  I'alace  at  Venice.  It 
hung  over  an  arch  leading  to  the  main  stairway. 

"  I  asked  papa  if  yon  might  use  it,"  said  Dorethea,  one 
day,  when  we  were  discussing  its  merits,  "  and  he  said 
he  would  rather  not  have  it  disturbed ;  however,  if  you 
are  patient  I  think  I  can  get  his  consent  to  take  it  down. 
You  know  I  can  do  anything  with  papa;  he  never  re- 
fuses what  I  really  wish." 

"  It  would  be  impossible  for  any  one  to  refuse  you  a 
favor,"  I  said,  looking  at  her  admiringly,  she  was  growing 
so  tall  and  maidenly ;  "  but  don't  insist  on  having  it, 
D  ;r?thea,  for  I  would  rather  paint  your  face  again." 


■Wii8ijfiJin!»ilM#W*'tI'q»»t'M?i»«gg^ 


'^^m.  ijiiLM)iu.iiiMm«mm^^iimk' ' 


SIAST. 


DOKKTIIKA. 


101 


1(1  years  tj  ray 
serious,  thought- 
;o  my  duties.  I 
g  my  destiny  iu 
every  menus  to 
tuuities.  I  was 
romise  to  Lord 
e  I  devoted  to 
ies.  Mr.  Lonely 
iiade  iu  classics, 
ere  enthusiastic 

3r  in  devising  a 
y  pencil.  There 
sts  at  the  Hall, 
ig  disturbed,  but 
on  overcame  his 
iviceable  models 

veted  as  a  study, 
from  one  of  the 
e  at  Venice.  It 
itairway. 
lid  Dorethea,  one 
;s,  "and  he  said 
;  however,  if  you 
t  to  take  it  down, 
pa;  he  never  re- 

to  refuse  you  a 
,  she  was  growing 
ist  on  having  it, 

face  again." 


<'0h,  no,"  she  said,  gravely,  "you  must  change.  It's 
not  good  to  work  on  one  subjtMit  too  much  ;  papa  says 
one  gets  Umiti-d.  You  (iufj;ht  to  make  some  copies  from 
tlie  best  pictures  at  tiie  Hall ;  papa  says  it  would  help  you 
with  color,  and  give  you  breadth." 

I  was  delighted  at  the  suggestion.  Lord  Hardmoor, 
in  spite  of  his  opposition  to  my  making  art  a  profession, 
was  deeply  interested  in  all  that  pertained  to  it,  had  a 
fine  collection,  and  was  considered  quite  an  authority  on 
old  painters,  and  had  written  several  very  readable 
papers  on  the  subject,  but  1  had  little  confidence  in  his 
opinion  or  knowledge  since  he  had  not  recognized  a  work 
of  Raphael  when  he  saw  it. 

One  glowing  day  iu  June  —  I  remember  it  so  well,  it 
is  another  picture  of  my  youth  that  will  never  grow  dim  — 
through  the  open  door  of  the  lodge  I  saw  a  long  vista 
of  grand  old  trees  gilded  fresh  with  the  matchless  rays 
of  a  summer  sun.  Tall  clumi)S  of  marguerites  and 
flaming  scarlet  poppies  stood  like  clusters  of  pearls  ami 
rubies  among  the  emerald  grass,  and  across  a  break  in 
the  mass  of  verdure  the  river  flashed  and  danced,  lightly 
uplifting  the  white-sailed  boats  that  were  jiassing  to 
and  fro. 

It  is  an  excpiisite  scene,  it  is  full  of  light  and  color. 
I  will  make  a  study  of  it.  And  straightway  I  wheeled 
my  easel  into  position  and  began  sketching  rapidly, 
when,  without  the  least  warning,  a  merry  laugh  fell  on 
my  ear,  and,  looking  up,  I  saw  the  slim  figure  of  Dorethea, 
her  nmslin  frock,  her  fluttering  ribbons,  her  graceful 
arms  uplifted  ;  but  the  golden  head  and  laughing  face 
were  concealed  by  the  grotesque  grinning  mask  she  held 
before  her. 

"  Oh,  you  darling!  "  J  cried,  startled  and  pleased  at  the 


-'i>jjiiijij*»  'I 


!!{HWfe««ii2K'a>a»iaiBWMi<';a«SM^^      ■<  jm 


MtBWlj-WWi.'A'.''i 


102 


TIIK    Sl'OKY    OK    AN    KN  TIIUSI AST. 


same  time.  "  I  see  you  liiivo  had  your  way,  as  usiiii',  ami 
the  poor  old  IJaochanto  has  had  to  oonu'  (U)\vii  rroiii  liis 
lii^'h  position  to  cover  your  pretty  Taec,  so  that  1  sliall 
not  be  dazzled  by  seein.t,'  its  brii^htiiess  too  suddenly." 

"Well!  well!  a  line  speeeli  I'roni  a  lad  to  a  little 
maiden  of  twelve,"  said  I-nnl  I  lanlnioor.  appearing  in  the 
door  much  to  my  eonfu-inn.  '■  Til  avow  when  I  was  of 
your  age  1  was  not  so  ready  with  my  tongue.  lUit  don't 
Hatter  the  child ;  she  is  8i)oiled  now  ;  she  has  not  only 
succeeded  in  getting  the  mask  down,  but  she  has  nuide 
me  fetch  it  all  the  way  from  the  Hall,  to  assist  her  in 
acting  her  little  comedy.  '  Lord !  what  fools  we  mortals 
be.' " 

"  It's  delightful !  It's  charming  for  a  picture,"  I  cried. 
"  Oh,  Dorothea !  please  don't  move;  i)ray  stand  as  you 
are  for  a  few  moments,  and  1  will  make  a  little  study 
of  you." 

Lord  Hardmoor  watched  me  while,  with  considerable 
skill,  I  rapidly  drew  the  salient  points  of  the  quaint 
composition,  and,  when  I  relieved  Dorothea  from  her 
fatiguing  position,  he  clapped  me  heartily  on  the 
shoulder,  and  said  :  "  Excellent,  my  dear  boy  ;  you've  got 
talent,  there's  no  doubt  of  it.  It  couldn't  be  better 
done." 

These  first  words  of  praise  from  Lord  Hardmoor  filled 
me  with  joy;  and  Dorethea  clung  to  her  father's  neck, 
aud  almost  smothered  him  with  kisses. 

•X. 

The  next  two  years  were  very  happy,  peaceful  years, 
and  in  every  way  satisfactory  as  far  as  my  progress  in 
my  studies  was  concerned.     Every  day  my  intercourse 


■aWJliMMI'lill^.MWt'liWti 


WiW  i>#ltoa*Jfee«^^*'a***w'^  - 


I  AST. 

ly,  aausiiii',  and 
down  riDiu  hin 
so  tli.it  1  shall 
(o  suddenly." 
lad  to  a  littlo 
apix'aring  in  the 
when  I  was  ol' 
ij^uc.  lUit  don't 
ic  has  not  only 
t  sho  has  niado 
to  assist  her  in 
fools  we  mortals 

|)icture,"  I  cried. 
iiy  stand  as  you 
e  a  little  study 

ith  considerable 
i  of  the  quaint 
rethea  from  her 
lieartily  on  the 
:•  l)oy  ;  you've  got 
luldu't  be  better 

Hard  moor  tilled 
n-  father's  neck, 


',  peaceful  years, 

my  progress  in 

r  my  intercourse 


DORKTHKA. 


ion 


with  the  curate  became  more  intimate.  .Mthough  the 
subject  of  art  was  never  mentioned  between  u.s,  h<) 
strictly  respected  the  hours  that  I  was  in  the  habit  of 
devoting  to  it.  And  I,  on  tlu;  other  hand,  tried  to  pre- 
vent him  from  feeling  that  my  mind  was  occupied  with 
any  other  subject  beside  my  books. 

Hy  rising  at  dawn  I  always  managed  to  have  i)erfect 
recitations,  as  well  as  my  usual  time  for  exercise  and 
recreation.  Nor  were  our  pleasant  evenings  interrupted  ; 
we  had  our  (piict  intellectual  feasts,  our  music  and  chess, 
and  nothing  of  moral,  mental,  or  physi.'al  training  was 
neglected,  while  I  was  making  fair  [.rogress  m  my  art 
studies.  Although  I  felt  the  need  of  teachers  and 
models,  and  sometimes  groped  blindly  after  the  truth, 
yet  I  was  doing  the  best  I  could  under  the  circumstances, 
and  that  made  me  happy  and  contented. 

The  winter  that  completed  my  nineteenth  year  was 
ushered  in  with  a  succession  of  wild  storms,  that  drove 
the  swollen  river  over  its  banks  until  the  water  covered 
Alice's  grave,  and  crept  even  to  our  cottage  door.  The 
winds  moaned  ominously,  the  air  was  heavy  with  chill- 
ing mists  that  swept  ghost-like  over  the  moors,  hiding 
the  distant  hills  in  an  impenetrable  veil,  and  shutting 
out  every  glimpse  of  sky  for  days  together. 

One  night  a  large  ship  from  some  foreign  port  drifted 
on  the  rocks  at  the  entrance  of  the  harbor,  and  the  next 
morning  the  sands  were  strewn  with  dead  bodies  together 
with  the  dehris  of  the  wreck. 

As  soon  as  it  was  known,  the  lower  class  of  the  village 
hastened  to  the  spot  in  order  to  secure  what  booty  they 
could  before  the  underwriters  from  London  arrived  to 
take  charge  of  the  property  cast  up  by  the  ruthless 
waves, 


mMi/miili»ili^'i''^i''<>ilii^^'' 


>•»'l^^lUi^^mJml!llll:l'smmlm3e!m«la!l'sJ»t' " 


-«SSP 


104 


TliK   HTOUY   OF   AN    K.NTHUSIAMT. 


Mr.  Lonely  was  also  among  tlio  first  to  visit,  tlio  sceiif 
of  till)  (lisastiT;  hi.s  duty  was  to  sco  that  the  bodies  were 
interrtnl  with  suital)le  religious  ritea,  and  for  several 
days  lie  was  absent  iiuist  of  the  time  on  his  melaucholy 
mission. 

"  I  foresee  a  terrible  calamity  in  this,"  he  said,  one 
eveninj,',  with  a  weary  sigh,  "for  I  am  convinced,  of  the 
nine  dead  bodies  washed  ashore,  seven  or  eight,  at  the 
time  of  their  (hMth,  were  ill  with  some  dreadful  disease. 
Dr.  liaiigham  has  examined  them,  as  well  as  the  other 
physicians  about  here,  and  all  agree  that  they  were  in 
the  dilTereiit  stages  of  an  infectious  fever,  and  it  is  my 
opinion  that  there  were  not  enough  well  men  to  manage 
the  ship,  which  accounts  for  her  being  out  of  her  course, 
her  total  wreck,  and  the  loss  of  every  soul  on  board. 
Now,  these  poor  dishonest  creatures  who  have  secreted 
this  infected  booty,  Avhat  a  horrible  punishment  is  in 
store  for  them,  for  without  a  doubt  this  disease  will 
spread  over  the  whole  population,  and  will  be  doubly 
fatal  because  of  their  poverty  and  the  severity  of  the 
winter." 

"  Oh,  how  terrible ! "  I  cried ;  "  can  nothing  be  done  to 
keep  them  away  from  the  wreck  ?  " 

"  It  is  now  too  late  ;  hundreds  of  them  were  doubtless 
infected  before  they  had  the  least  intimation  of  their 
danger.  My  dear  boy,"  he  .added,  after  a  few  moments 
of  deep  thought,  "1  think  you  must  leave  me;  for,  if  my 
fears  should  prove  true,  my  duty  will  take  me  constant- 
ly among  these  suffering  creatures,  and  I  do  not  wish  to 
expose  you  to  danger  from  contact  with  me." 

"  Uh,  Mr.  Lonely  ! "  I  cried,  earnestly,  "  don't  speak  of 
my  leaving  you.  T  can't ;  indeed  I  can't.  Do  you  think 
1  am  so  weak  and  cowardly  as  to  desert  you  when  you 


-  v^*sKW'*»*A*il'"*-**'''*'''* '  >'*W'*' 


MtejBii^!e?**«Nte^»*^^ 


lUrtlAUT. 

b  to  visif,  UiO  scene 
liat  the  bodies  weri' 
'S,  and  for  several 
on  his  niohiuclioly 

this,"  he  said,  ont- 
1  (ionvinccd,  of  tlie 
>n  or  eight,  at  tin- 
le  dreadful  disease. 
I  well  as  the  other 
I  that  they  were  in 
ever,  and  it  is  my 
rell  men  to  manage 
g  out  of  her  course, 
/ery  soul  on  board, 
who  have  secreted 
e  punishment  is  in 
t  this  disease  will 
uul  will  be  doubly 
the  severity  of  the 

I  nothing  be  done  to 

;hem  were  doubtless 
intimation  of  their 
Fter  a  few  moments 
eave  me  ;  for,  if  my 
1  take  me  constant- 
nd  I  do  not  wish  to 
,ith  me." 

;tly,  "  don't  speak  of 
lau't.  Do  you  think 
;sert  you  when  you 


DOKKTIIKA. 


105 


need  me,  when  you  are  in  danger  V  If  there  is  work  for 
you,  there  is  also  work  for  me,  and  there  is  nothing 
so  bad  that  I  can't  share  it  witli  you." 

"  My  brave,  true  boy  I  (Jod  bless  you  !  1  f  yonr  heart 
tells  you  to  stay,  do  so,  and  we  will  try  to  do  our  duty, 
trusting  in  the  only  help  we  can  salVly  rely  upon." 

It  was  as  he  feared.  Before  a  fortnight  ha.l  passed  the 
pestilence  stalked  abroad  at  noonday,  and  hundreds  of 
the  poor  villagers  were  stricken  down  like  flax  belore  a 
tire  There  was  a  fearful  panic ;  every  one  wlio  could 
h.ave  the  infected  spot  fled  as  though  a  demon  pursued 
him.  The  Rectory  was  closed,  and  my  uncle,  with  his 
family,  took  refuge  in  the  next  county,  never  thinking  of 
me  in  his  hurried  departure.  Lord  Hardnioor,  after 
vainly  trying  to  induce  me  to  accompany  him,  left  with. 
Lady  Hardmoor  and  Dorethea  for  London,  where  he 
said  he  should  remain  until  every  trace  of  the  pestilence 
had  vanished. 

So,  deserted  by  all  but  old   Hester,  Mr.  Lonely  and  I 
stood  faithfully  at  our  post  in  the  plague-stricken  village 
distributing  the  medicine,  food,  and  fuel  which   Lord 
Hardmoor  had  generously  provided  for  our  use. 

What  scenes  of  pitiful  distress  we  witnessed  as  we 
went  from  cottage  to  cottage,  where  the  sufferers  lay 
deserted  by  all  save  the  doctors  and  a  few  heroic  soids, 
who  counted  their  lives  as  nothing  if  they  could  allevi- 
ate the  agony  of  the  dying  or  soothe  and  comfort  the 

living.  , 

Nearly  every  hour  the  church-yard  gates  were  opened, 
and  another  weary  sufferer  went  to  his  last  resting-place, 
while  Mr.  Lonely  stood  with  uncovered  head  beside  the 
row  of  new-made  graves  and  read  the  burial-service  lu 
clear,  unfaltering  tones. 


■  n«iijJiW>iiii  mud  iiWi>»iii>iw»W»'m'«i!»"'.tf ■  "I  '■-  '"'-.*'■ 


io(; 


TIIK  ST(»ltY   OK    AN    KNTIIl'SI AST. 


AI'tiT  some  \v(M<ks  of  (Irciidful  morttility,  tho  fury  of 
tlic  lu'stilfiicf  iibiitt'd.  'riiiTti  wiTo  fewer  new  cases  each 
(lay,  ami  many  were  not  fatal ;  the  weather  was  milder, 
and  a  lonj,'  thaw  set  tiie  iee-luuind  river  free,  lioatin^ 
away  on  its  hoHoni  many  of  tliu  impurities  that  had 
gathered  around  it. 

One  evening  Mr.  Lonely  eanie  home  from  a  h\irial-ser- 
vico  (luite  late,  lie  .seemed  very  weary,  hut  more  hope- 
ful. "Thiink  (Jod."  he  said,  as  he  threw  himself  in  his 
arm-ehair,  "tlien-are  no  new  ea.sea  to-day.  How  com- 
fortable it  is  here.  How  sweet  to  rest  after  such  painful 
labor."  JIo  sat  lor  some  time  silent,  with  liis  eyes  elosed, 
and,  as  I  watelied  him,  I  saw  there  were  tears  slowly 
rolling  down  his  i)ale,  tired  face. 

•  The  Hre  burned  brightly,  t^^he  kettle  hissed  on  the  hob. 
Hester  had  brought  the  tea,  niitl  1  urged  him  to  take 
some.  Smiling  gently,  he  raised  the  cup  to  his  lips,  but 
a  deathly  pallor  passed  over  his  face,  and  witliout  drink- 
ing he  put  it  down. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Lonely,  are  you  ill  ?  "  I  cried,  going  quickly 
to  him,  for  I  saw  that  he  was  suffering,  and  was  trying 
to  conceal  it  from  me. 

"Don't  be  alarmed,"  he  said,  quite  calmly.  "Yes;  I 
think  I  am  ill,  but  don't  fret  about  it.  Take  care  of 
y(mrself,  my  dear  boy.  Oh,  what  a  blessing  you  have 
been  to  me.  I  am  very  tired,  I  need  rest  —  a  long,  long 
rest."  And,  still  smiling,  he  held  out  his  hands.  "Help 
me  to  bed.  Felix,  it  is  well  with  me.  But  you  — you 
— I  can  only  give  you  into  God's  care." 

I  put  my  arm  around  him,  and  led  him  to  his  room, 
my  heart  sinking  and  njy  limbs  trembling.  When  I  had 
assisted  him  to  undress  and  lie  down,  I  hastened  to  de- 
spatch Hester  for  Dr.  Langham,  saying,  «  Run  quickly. 


.  4^i^»witfMC'tWMlMM»W.iWWW1ilW^ 


~;(^JKBf*K1BBilPR"^^^ 


'HI  AST. 

vlit.y,  tho  fury  of 
•r  luiw  c;i8i'8  t'lK'li 
itlicr  was  luiltltT, 
iver  fi'cp,  lloiitiiij^ 
ui'itica   tliiit   hud 

from  a  Imrial-ser- 
',  l)\it  juort!  liope- 
\v  hiinsclf  in  his 
(lay.  How  eoiii- 
iftcr  S'lcli  [jaiiifiil 
Ji  his  eyes  iiloscd, 
vere  tears  slowly 

lisst'd  on  the  hob. 
rgpd  him  to  take 
up  to  his  lips,  but 
lid  witliout  drink- 

ied,  going  quickly 
g,  and  was  trying 

calmly.  "Yes;  I 
it.  Take  care  of 
jlessing  you  have 
est  —  a  long,  long 
Ills  hands.  "Help 
.    But  you  —  you 

him  to  his  room, 
ling.  When  I  had 
I  hastened  to  de- 
iig,  "Run  quickly. 


IJOUKTIIK.V. 


107 


'I'lll  the  d(H'tnr  Mr.  Lonely  is  vtry  ill  ar.d  tu  vuuW  ^vith 

1    S|>l't'(l." 

For  four  day.s  and  nights  T  never  left  him.  Sitting  by 
liis  bed,  1  watched  the  .steady  progress  of  the  blighting 
di.seaso.  From  the  first  we  knew  there  was  no  hope  ;  the 
fever  Ininied  steadily  and  fierrely  until  lie  hank  into  a 
heavy  .stupor,  from  which  he  oidy  awoke  for  a  lew  mo- 
ments to  partial  consciousness. 

The  fourth  night  I  knew  the  end  was  near,  heoaiise 
his  hand,  which  seemed  to  cling  to  mine,  grew  cold  and 
(lamp  in  my  clasp,  and  a  mist  settled  over  his  mournful 
eyes.  Fmm  time  to  time,  he  murmured  broken  sen- 
tences. Once  he  said,  in  a  low,  pathetic  voice,  "  Alice, 
am  I  changed  so  that  you  do  not  know  mt;  V  "  Then, 
after  a  moment,  he  cried,  anxiously,  "Give  Betty  Link  a 
cup  of  wat(!r." 

For  an  horn-  he  breathed  so  softly  th^'t  I  thought  he 
was  over  all  pain.  A  deep  silence,  solemn,  oppressive, 
tilled  the  room.  Day  was  breaking,  and  its  ghostly 
light  crept  slowly  over  the  still,  white  face.  Suddenly 
he  opened  his  eyes,  —  those  beautiful,  sad  eyes,  —  and, 
lifting  his  hand,  he  said,  emphatically,  "The  flowers  from 
her  dust  will  blossom  in  eternity."  After  that,  he  lay 
lierfectly  quiet,  until  a  bright  ray  of  sunlight  darted 
between  the  curtains  and  shone  like  a  halo  of  glory  over 
his  head.  He  evidently  felt  the  soft  (caress  of  the  new- 
born day,  for,  looking  up,  his  wide  eyes  full  of  mystic 
light,  he  said,  "It  is  sunri.so."  Then  the  lids  fell  over 
the  windows  of  his  sold  forever,  and  I  stood  alone  in  the 
cold  presence  of  death  while  lie  entered  into  eternal 
morning. 

T  saw  him  laid  beside  Alice.  The  sun  shone  brightly 
but  coldly  on  the  new  mounds  heiped  here  and  there,  on. 


tr 


108 


Til  10  STOllY   Ob'   AN    KNI'MUSIAST. 


tlie  dancing  river  free  frcn  its  ioy  fetters,  ar.il  on  ll.c 
narrow  slab  that  marked  tlie  spot  of  his  buried  love.  A 
curate  from  the  nearest  parish  read  the  solemn  service 
hurriedly,  trembling  with  fear  and  cold.  The  old  sexton 
and  myself  were  the  only  mourners,  and  I  alone  dropped 
the  last  tear  into  his  grave.  Thank  God  that  I  was  able 
to  show  to  the  very  last  my  love  and  reverence  for  him. 

After  all  was  over,  1  went  back  to  the  desolate  cottage, 
and,  shutting  myself  in  my  room,  I  wept  and  prayed  as 
I  never  had  before.  I  thought  much  of  life,  its  duties, 
its  earnestness,  and  its  solemnity.  Another  chapter  of 
my  history  closed  with  another  loss,  and  again  I  was 
alone,  orphaned  for  the  second  time,  listening  for  the 
second  time  to  this  canticle  of  eternal  sorrow  sung 
between  the  living  and  the  dead. 

After  waiting  for  some  weeks,  to  be  sure  that  I  was 
free  from  infection,  and  until  the  pestilence  had  entirely 
disappeared,  I  made  a  farewoil  visit  to  my  rustic  studio, 
went  again  to  that  place  of  silence  and  eternal  repose, 
to  leave  another  tear  on  the  grave  of  my  friend  and 
teacher,  and  then  turned  my  face  toward  London  —  to 
begin  a  new  era  in  my  life. 


»H5«-i:i^:>:*sS&r*«^f1»!Se«Bs?r»i3S(SfaeiSSiB^ 


ih"^ 


N    KN'I'HUSIAST. 

its  ioy  fettt'i's,  ar.J  on  llic 
ipot  of  his  buried  love.  A 
1  read  the  solemn  service 
'  and  cold.  The  old  sexton 
irners,  and  I  alone  dropped 
Thank  God  that  I  was  able 
jve  and  reverence  for  him. 
lack  to  the  desolate  cottage, 
Dom,  I  wept  and  prayed  as 
it  much  of  life,  its  duties, 
mity.  Another  chapter  of 
her  loss,  and  again  I  was 
nd  time,  listening  for  the 
e  of  eternal  sorrow  sung 
}ad. 

eks,  to  be  sure  that  I  was 
the  pestilence  had  entirely 
il  visit  to  my  rustic  studio, 
silence  and  eternal  repose, 
e  grave  of  my  friend  and 
'  face  toward  London  —  to 


PART  III. 
P  O  L  O  N  /E. 


u^jm^^^^mm^^i^isi^'^s^^t^sii^^nr 


f  -.g^Ji^f  iijgjtiMijBijl^F'ttaf  I!!!;  wtJ 


3!¥(!W«««ses*sfc 


-j*!lji!Si!f  W.UiiaiMIIH*»fe>-'<'"g***> 


tART   TIL 


POLON.'K. 


I. 

It  was  nearly  night  when  I  reached  Lord  Hardmoor's 
house  in  Berkeley  Square.  The  servant  wlio  opened  the 
door  informed  me  that  the  family  were  dressing  for  din- 
ner and  would  be  down  shortly. 

When  I  entered  the  large,  dimly  lighted  drawing-room, 
I  thought  it  was  quite  empty,  but  I  soon  discovered  a 
little  white  figure  almost  buried  in  a  large  arm-chair 
drawn  before  the  fire.  The  opening  of  the  door  did  not 
disturb  her,  so  I  went  softly  forward  and  saw  Doretliea 
nestling  there  sound  asleep,  with  a  little  dog  that  I  had 
given  her  clasped  in  her  arms. 

Silently  I  looked  at  the  sweet  sleeper.  She  had  evi- 
dently been  fretting,  for  her  face  was  pals  and  sad,  and 
more  than  once  she  sighed  heavily,  like  a  child  that  had 
cried  itself  to  sleep.  While  I  looked  at  her,  her  pretty 
lips  parted,  and  between  a  sigh  and  a  sob,  she  murmured 
my  name. 

Unable  to  control  my  emotion,  I  bent  over  her,  and 
kissed  her  pretty  golden  head  tenderly  and  reverently. 
As  I  did  so,  one  of  my  hot  tears  fell  on  her  face  and 
awoke  her. 

She  looked  at  me  for  an  instant  in  bewildered  sur- 
prise ;  then,  springing  forward,  she  clasped  my  neck, 
crying,  "  Felix !  oh,  Felix !  it  is  you,  and  you  are  here 

111 


aaMI«ia»W<>«MMSiW  r 


tftmntimmti  I  >  "  ii.iWiaaiiiiiuim 


MMMkc 


112 


THR   STOnV   OF    AN    ENTHUSrAST. 


alive  and  well.  Oh,  I  am  so  thankful !  I  feared  yoi.  were 
ill,  and  perhaps  dead,  with  that  dreadful  fever,  and  I 
have  cried  so  much."  ,      •        i 

"  My   darling,  God  spared  me,"  I  said,  kissing  her 
sweet  face  shyly  and  tremulously,  my  soul  in  a  tumult 

of  wild  joy. 

«  But  you  look  pale  and  sad,  and  you  are  m  mourning. 
Oh,  Felix,  is  Mr.  Lonely  —  where  is  Mr.  Lonely  ?  " 

"Dorethea,  Mr.  Lonely  is  at  rest  forever,  or  I  should 

not  be  here."  ,    ,      ,       i. 

"At  rest  forever— then,  he  is  dead,"  and  she  burst 
into  tears.  "  I  loved  him  dearly,  he  Avas  so  gentle  and 
good.  Oh,  Felix  dear,  how  you  have  suffered,  and  I  not 
there  to  help  you."  And,  leaning  her  head  on  my  shoul- 
der, she  wept  bitterly,  while  I  forgot  my  own  sorrow, 
trying  to  comfort  her. 

After  awhile,  she  wiped  away  her  tears  resolutely, 
and  tried  to  smile,  but  her  lips  quivered  as  she  said,  "I 
ought  not  to  cry  when  you  are  safe,  but  it  has  been  so 
dreadful,  this  anxiety  and  suspense.  The  weeks  since 
we  came  up  to  town  seem  longer  than  all  the  rest  of  my 
life.  Well,  it  is  over  at  last,  and  you  are  here,  and 
shall  be  happy  again.     I  must  run  and  tell  papa 


wc 


and  mama  that  you  are  come ;  but,  oh,  Felix,  T  never 
thought  until  this  moment!  — is  there  any  danger  in 
your  coming  ?  " 

"  Not  the  least,  or  I  should  not  have  come. 

"Papa  and  mama  are  so  afraid.  AYhy,  papa  will  not 
allow  a  letter  to  be  sent  from  the  Hall." 

"You  need  have  no  fear,  Dorethea.  I  have  taken 
every  precaution." 

"  Sit  in  this  arm  chair  and  rest  while  I  go  and  tell 
them ;  you  look  very  tired,  but  I  shall  take  good  care  of 


SIAST. 

[  feared  yoi.  were 
ful  fever,  and  I 

said,  kissing  her 
soul  in  a  tumult 

are  in  mourning, 
r.  Lon(;ly  ?  " 
L-ever,  or  I  should 

,"  and  she  burst 
ras  so  gentle  and 
uffered,  and  I  not 
lead  on  my  shoid- 
my  own  sorrow, 

tears  resolutely, 
sd  as  she  said,  "  I 
but  it  has  been  so 

The  weeks  since 
all  the  rest  of  my 
ou  are  here,  and 
un  and  tell  papa 
h,  Felix,  I  never 
re  any  danger  in 

e  come." 

A'hy,  papa  will  not 

?a.     I  liave  taken 

^hile  I  go  and  tell 
1  take  good  care  of 


I'OiiON/i:. 


11:5 


you  now."     Ami,  with  a  luippy  smile,  she  ran  out  of  the 
room,  and  I  lieiird  lier  light  steps  fairly  Hying  up  the 

stairs. 

A  few  moments  later,  Lord  Hardmoor  entered  liur- 
riedly,  with  a  wild,  frightened  look.  I  went  forward  to 
meet  liim,  but  he  waved  me  away,  saying,  "  Don't,  pray 
don't  come  any  nearer !  Good  lieavens  !  what  possessed 
you  to  come  here  ?  Do  you  want  to  kill  us  all '!  If 
you  intended  coming,  why  didn't  you  h-t  me  know,  so  I 
could  have  been  prepared  '.' '' 

"  I'ray,  don't  be  alarmed,  sir,"  I  said,  calmly  ;  "  there 
is  no  danger.  There  have  been  no  new  cases  of  the  dis- 
ease for  over  two  weeks,  and  1  have  not  been  exjjosed  to 
it  since  Mr.  Lonely  died  — nearly  a  month  ago.  Still, 
if  you  wish  me  to,  1  will  go  away  directly." 

"Certainly,  you  must;  1  can't  expose  Lady  Hardmoor 
and  Dorethea  to  such  danger." 

"I  have  already  seen  Dorethea;  I  found  her  here 
when  1  came  in." 

"Yes,  I  know  it,  and  it  was  most  imprudent;  but  you 
umst  not  go  near  her  again  — her  mother  is  almost 
insane  with  fear." 

Disappointed  and  disgusted  with  his  unreasonable 
terror,  I  was  about  to  leave,  when  suddenly  an  idea, 
which  seemed  an  inspiration,  occurred  to  me.  Taking 
my  hat,  I  turned  towards  the  door,  saying,  "  Very  well. 
Lord  Hardmoor,  since  you  wish  me  to  go,  I  will  go  at 
once,  although  I  assure  you  your  fears  are  groundless. 
However,  that  doesn't  matter.  I  have  only  a  few  words 
to  say :  I  wisli  to  tell  you  that  I  intend  leaving  for  Paris 
to-morrow  morning." 

"  Paris.  AVhat  nonsense  !  Why  didn't  you  stay  where 
vou  were   until  it  was  safe  to  go  wandering  about  V     I 


*r- 


i%»MMtm'i^.«w**»'iii»i 


Mlfei,|Y,ii 


114 


TIIK    HTOKY   OK   AN    KNTIIU8IAST. 


shouldn't  woiulev  if  you  spread  that  plague  over  half  ol 

Europe." 

I  smiled  in  spite  of  myself,  and  eontinued:  "bince 
my  studies  with  Mr.  Lonely  have  ended  so  unexpectedly 
and  so  sadlv,  I  am  free  to  begin  my  new  life.  1  shall 
hnd  some  ot  my  father's  friends,  and  they  will  advise 
me  in  regard  to  my  art  studies ;  my  letters  and  remit- 
tances you  can  send  to  my  fatlni-s  former  banker,  Kue 
de  llivoli.  ^Vhen  1  am  settled  I  will  inform  you.  Give 
my  love  and  good-bys  to  Lady  Hardmoor  and  Dorethea. 
I  hope  you  will  alhnv  Dorethea  to  write  to  me." 

<'  Certainly ;  1  don't  mind  her  writing  to  you,  if  you 
really  intend  to  go." 

My  heart  throbbed  so  that  I  could  hardly  speak,  and 
it  was  with  difficulty  that  I  restrained  my  tears.  I  was 
very  lonely,  and  had  just  experienced  such  a  sad  loss . 
It  seemed  to  me  that  I  never  needed  a  friend  as  much  as 
I  did  then,  and  the  two  good  angels  of  my  life  were  near 
me,  ready  and  longing  to  console  me,  and  because  of  a 
stupid  fear  I  must  be  banished,  and  sent  out  into  the 
world  heart-broken  and  desolate. 

Perhaps  Lord  Hardmoor  felt  some  pity  for  my  un- 
happy situation  ;  for,  as  1  turned  toward  the  door,  he  said, 
(luite  gently,  "I  am  sorry,  my  boy,  very  sorry;  but  you 
needn't  leave  London.  There  is  no  sense  in  your  doing 
things  so  rashly.  You  can  take  lodgings  for  a  while,  and 
I  will  see  you  as  soon  as  it  is  safe." 

'<  Thank  you  ;  that  would  be  useless.  It  has  always 
been  mv  intention  to  go  to  Paris  as  soon  as  1  finished 
with  Mr.  Lonely.  Unhappily  for  ine,  it  is  a  little  sooner 
than  I  anticipated.  Since  I  can't  see  Lady  Hardmoor 
iuul  Dorethea,  there  is  nothing  to  keep  me  here.  I  may 
as  well  leave  to-morrow,  and  I  am  anxious  to  begin  my 


I 


SI  AST. 

igue  over  Lalt'  ol 

intimied:  "Since 
I  so  unexi)ecU'(lly 
new  lite.  1  shall 
they  will  advise 
letters  and  remit- 
iiier  banker,  Kue 
it'orni  you.  Give 
or  and  Dorethea. 
i  to  nie." 
ig  to  you,  if  you 

lardly  speak,  and 
my  tears.  I  was 
such  a  sad  loss! 
friend  as  nmch  as 
lay  life  were  near 
and  because  of  a 
sent  out  into  the 

pity  for  my  un- 
i  the  door,  he  said, 
ry  sorry  ;  but  you 
nse  in  your  doing 
igs  for  a  while,  and 

3s.  It  has  always 
soon  as  1  finished 
it  is  a  little  sooner 
e  Lady  Hardmoor 
p  me  here.  I  may 
xious  to  begin  my 


I'OLON.E. 


115 


new  career."     As  1  reached  the  door,  1  held  out  my  hand 
saying,  "(Jood-by.     It  may  be  sonn^  time  before  I  see 

you  again.'' 

Lord  Hardmoor  drew  back  from  my  proffered  hand  as 
though  it  had  been  a  i)oisonous  reptile.  "I'm  sorry, 
n'ally,"  he  said,  with  some  embarrassment ;  "  I'm  very 
st)rry,  birt  really  I  am  afraid  to  shake  hands  with  you. 
It's  most  unfortunate  for  you  to  come  and  go  this  way, 
but  I'm  afraid,  you  know,  for  I^ady  Hardmoor  and 
Dorethea.  Howevi-r,  this  danger  will  soon  be  over,  and 
I  don't  believe  you  will  stay  long  in  Taris  ;  a  change  will 
do  you  good.  Hadn't  you  better  go  at  once  ?  Perhaps 
you  can  cateh  the  night  mail.  You  know  every  moment 
you  stay  here  I'm  in  danger." 

With  a  gesture  of  contempt  that  I  did  not  care  to 
conceal,  I  hurried  from  the  house  that  was  the  home  of 
the  being  I  loved  best  in  the  Avorld,  my  sweet  Porethea. 
As  I  went,  I  looked  back,  and  saw  a  pale,  tearful  face  at 
an  upper  window.  It  was  the  dear  girl  watching  for  my 
departure.  She  kissed  her  hand,  and  then  covered  her 
face  as  a  sign  of  sorrow.  Poor  child  !  I  know  she  wept 
herself  to  sleep  that  night. 

IL 

One  morning  I  awoke  to  find  myself  in  Paris.  Spring- 
ing from  my  bed,  I  threw  open  my  curtains  and  looked 
with  rapture  on  the  great  white  city  spread  before  me. 
How  clean  and  bright,  how  joyous  it  seemed,  after  dirty, 
smoky  London. 

The  first  thing  I  did,  as  soon  as  I  was  dressed  and  had 
taken  a  light  breakfast,  was  to  send  for  a  Jiacre  and 
drive  hurriedly  to  the  Kue  de  Grenelle,  Saint  Germain. 


»r 


^ 


-niHgiyW^a  »>'^iijift'ii']ft^-*#*t^'f>'* 


UG 


THE   STOKY    OK    AN    ENTHUSIAST. 


Alighting  at  our  old  muiiber,  which  I  had  not  foivjotteii, 
I  entered  the  little  room  of  the  eowlft'ge,  and  there  was 
Fadette,  the  same  good-natured  woman,  only  a  little 
older  and  a  little  stouter.  1  recognized  her  at  once,  but 
of  course  she  did  not  know  me. 

"  What  will  monsieur  have  ?  "  she  asked,  coming  for- 
ward politely. 

"  Ah,  Fadette  !  "  1  cried,  holding  out  my  hand.  *'  Is  it 
possible  you  have  forgotten  me  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have,  monsieur,"  she  replied,  with  a 
puzzled  smile. 

"  Look  back  eight  or  nine  years  ago  ;  do  not  you  see  a 
pale  little  boy,  dressed  in  black,  running  in  and  out,  and 
always  stopping  to  put  his  fingers  between  the  bars  of 
this  same  cage  that  stands  here  to-day,  just  as  it  did 
then,  and  once  this  very  parocpiet  b'.t  Ins  finger  badly, 
and  you  bound  up  the  wound  very  tenderly,  because  he 
had  no  mother  to  do  it  for  him  !  " 

"Ah,  monDkn!  yes!  it  must  be !  yes  —  I  place  you 
now ;  you  are  Monsieur  Felix,  but  so  grown  and  changed, 
how  should  I  know  you  at  first.  AVhat  a  tall,  handsome 
youth,  and  like  your  father  too  !  " 

"  Thank  you,  Fadette.  I  am  so  glad  you  think  so.  I 
want  to  be  like  him." 

"  You  may  well  wish  to  be,  then,  for  he  was  a  hand- 
some man,  and  as  romme  il  fuut  as  he  was  handsome. 
Ah,  I  shall  never  have  another  lodger  like  monsieur 
your  father." 

"  Fadette,"  I  asked,  my  voice  trembling  in  spite  of 
myself,  "  can  T  see  our  apartment  ?  I  should  like  to  so 
much  if  I  can." 

"  Yes,  monsieur,  1  think  you  may  some  time,  although 
there  is  a  very  cross  old  dowager  in  it.     Still,  if  you  will 


5S8SSf«55S9'*SS^*5>' 


rsiAST. 


I'DLONvE. 


117 


[111  not  forrjotteu, 
te,  and  there  was 
m,  only  a  little 
.  her  at  once,  but 

3ked,  coining  for- 

my  hand.     "  Is  it 

e  replied,  with  a 

do  not  3'ou  see  a 
If,'  in  and  out,  and 
iveen  the  bars  of 
ly,  just  as  it  did 
liis  finger  badly, 
derly,  because  he 

'es  —  1  jdace  you 
own  and  changed, 
t  a  tall,  handsome 

you  think  so.     1 

r  he  was  a  hand- 
le was  handsome. 
;er  like   monsieur 

ibling  in  spite  of 
should  like  to  so 

me  time,  although 
Still,  if  you  will 


call  at  a  proper  time,  for  it  is  much  too  early  now,  I 
think  she  will  allow  you  to  go  over  the  rooms." 

After  a  little  more  conversation,  I  took  my  leavi', 
promising  to  come  again.  Sonunvhat  saddened,  I  mwt 
visited  the  Luxembourg.  There  in  those  lovely  gardens 
I  drank  in  the  first  breath  of  spring.  It  was  the  middle 
of  ^farch,  and  tlic  season  was  much  farther  advanced 
than  it  was  in  England.  Already  the  Howers  were 
springing  up  in  the  borders,  and  the  grass  was  fresh  and 
green.  I  low  many  hours  1  had  walked  there  with  my 
father  !  Each  copse,  fountain,  arbor,  and  shaded  seat 
were  familiar,  and  1  no  longer  felt  alone— his  dear 
presence  seemed  to  surround  nu'.  When  I  mounted  the 
stairs  that  led  to  the  galli'ry  of  paintings,  a  shadowy 
form  went  with  me,  for  memory  had  obliterated  the 
years  between,  and  again  1  was  a  child,  with  my  hand 
clasped  in  his. 

That  day  I  feasted  among  pictures,  wandering  from 
room  to  room,  studying  form,  design,  and  color ;  awed, 
amazed,  almost  trembling,  before  the  majesty  of  art. 
How  insignificant  1  felt.  What  had  I  done  in  my 
rustic  studio !  and  what  could  I  do  to  compare  with 
what  had  been  done  !  How  infinitely  small  and  feeble 
were  my  efforts,  how  infinitely  preposterous  were  my 
aspirations !  At  times,  dejected  and  disheartened,  1 
covered  my  eyes  to  shut  out  the  glory  around  me ;  I  was 
blinded,  bewildered,  before  the  vastness  of  man's 
achievement.  They  I  questioned  myself  closely  con- 
cerning the  sincerity  of  my  intentions.  Was  I  only 
deceiving  myself  Avith  an  imaginary  talent  ?  Was  I  de- 
luded by  my  own  foolish  conceit  into  thinking  that  I 
possessed  the  divine  gift  ?  So  far  I  had  done  nothing, 
nothing,  and  1  reproved  myself  severely  for  my  pre- 


tSgsaaiffe^M'HSa^raT* 


D  iMMliMttttdlii^iilAlJ^ 


118 


Till';   STOllV    OK    AN    ICNTIIL'SIAHT. 


sumi)tiuu  ill  tliiiikiii;^  that   1    could   evt-r   stuml   beside 
tiii'se  great  souls  in  the  glory  of  immortality. 

The  day  passed  like  a  dri'am.  I  did  not  know  it  was 
late  until  tlie  eiistodian  touched  me  on  the  shoulder  and 
told  me  it  was  time  to  elose  the  gi^Uery.  Then  1  looked 
iiround  and  saw  that  the  rooms  were  empty ;  but  I  was 
not  alone,  for  genius  peopled  them  with  lorms  that 
seemed  to  move  anil  live  and  breathe. 

The   next    day    1     hastened   to   the    gallery   of    the 
Louvre,  where  I  soon   found  the   portrait   of   a  young 
man    by    Raphael.      That    picture,    luy  father  said,  re- 
sembled in  many  l>i)ints  the  one  in  his  possession,  and, 
when  1  saw  it  again,  it  was  like  looking  into  the  face  of 
an  old  friend  ;   there  were  the  same  dark,  mysterious 
eyes,  the  same  haunting  expression,  the  same  soft  curv- 
ing mouth  with  its  gentle,  reticent  smile.     It  moved  me 
strangely,  it  was  so  like  my  Kaphael,  the  beloved  of  my 
ehildhood.      Certainly  both  portraits    must   have    been 
painted  from  the  same  model,  and  the  model  must  have 
been  the   master   himself.     The   first,    the   one   in  the 
Louvre,  is  of  a  youth  between  hfteen  and  sixteen  years  of 
age  ;  the  other,  of  a  more  mature  and  thoughtful  e'.-r- 
ucter,  represented  a  young  man  of  twenty,  but  indispu- 
tably the  faces  were  the  same. 
■       I  could  scarcely  tear  myself  away  from  this  picture, 
and  day  after  day  1  haunted  the  gallery  of  the  Louvre, 
where  I  divided  my  time  between  that  and  the  other 
works  of  Raphael.    I  was  like  one  wjio,  half-famished,  is 
suddenly  set  down  to  an  abundant  feast,  and  who,  in  his 
eagerness,  scarcely  knows  what    to  devour  first.     But 
after  a  while  my  hunger  became  in  a  measure  satisfied, 
and  I  was  able  to  examine  more  leisurely  and  study 
more  carefully,  selecting  what  1  liked  best,  and  making 


siAsr. 

k't'T    Htuiid    besidi: 

tiility. 

not  know  it  was 

the  HlnniUlor  and 

.     TIk'11  I  looki'd 

nipty;  but  I  wa.s 

with    lornis   that 

■trait   of   a  young 
ry  t'athiT  said,  ve- 
s  possession,  and, 
ig  into  the  face  of 
dark,  mysterious 
,e  same  soft  curv- 
ile.     It  moved  me 
tlie  beloved  of  my 
must   have    been 
model  must  have 
t,    the   one   in  the 
md  sixteen  years  of 
d  thoughtful  o'-.-^v- 
I'enty,  but  indif^pu- 

from  this  picture, 
ery  of  the  Louvre, 
that  and  the  other 
to,  half-famished,  is 
ist,  and  who,  in  his 
devour  first.  But 
L  measure  satisfied, 
leisurely  and  study 
d  best,  and  making 


roliON.K. 


Ill) 


now  and   tlien  aketehes   of   design   and  iiints  of    color 
which  were  of  great  service  to  me  in  my  later  studies. 

III. 

I  HAD  been  in  I'aris  for  more  than  a  week  before  it 
occurred  to  me  that  1  had  made  no  effort  to  find  my 
father's  friends.  Taking  his  journal,  I  noted  down  the 
names  mentioned  tlierein  :  (Jerard,  whom  France  had 
lost  some  years  before;  David,  who  had  died  in  exile  ; 
and  Vernet,  who  was  then  director  of  the  Fren(di  Acad- 
emy in  Rome.  Those  still  living  and  in  Taris  at  that 
time  were  Hersent;  (Jros,  J)elaro(die,  Delaborde,  and 
IMichelet,  the  well  known  expert,  who  had  jjronounccd 
favorable  judgment  upon  the  Raphael ;  also  M.  Lefond, 
who  had  settled  up  my  father's  affairs  after  his  death  ; 
him  I  decided  to  see  first,  as  through  him  1  might  be 
able  to  learn  something  of  the  lost  picture.  Ho  received 
me  kindly,  but  coidd  give  me  no  information.  However, 
he  referred  me  to  M.  Goudon,  Rue  Drouet,  who  had  sold 
the  collection,  and  also  gave  me  the  address  of  M. 
Michelet. 

I  found  M.  Michelet  in  his  study,  surrounded  by  old 
engravings  and  half-obliterated  canvases.  When  I 
entered,  he  was  examining,  with  a  microscope,  a  small 
fragment  of  soiled  paper,  on  which  appeared  the  faintest 
pen-and-ink-sketch;  without  looking  up.  although  T  had 
been  announced,  he  continued  his  careful  scrutiny,  en- 
tirely unmindful  of  ray  presence.  At  last,  after  what 
seemed  to  me  a  long  time,  he  glanced  up,  and,  seeing  me 
standing  before  him,  he  started,  and,  coloring  slightly, 
said,  "  Pardon  me,  M.  Markland.  I  am  very  much  inter- 
ested in  this  little  piece  of  paper ;  but  I  am  glad  to  see 


■  iiM»»iin»»n-ii«MMii 


J 


120 


TIIK   HTOKV    <»!'•    AN    KNTIIl'MIAMT. 


you,  all  tho  sumc.  Tlio  son  of  my  old  friend  18  niost 
wt'lconi*',  t'Hpi'cially  wlu-a  ho  brings  aucliun  introduction 
as  his  fath»,'r's  face  and  smile." 

Alter  shaking  hands  heartily,  ho  looked  at  lae  closely, 
and  added,  "  Vou  are  a  liner  young  nnui  than  your  ehild- 
hood  gave  promise  of.  Let  mo  soo,  you  have  been  in 
Kngland  since  you  lost  your  father,  have  you  not '/  " 

I  answered  in  the  athrmative. 

"  Well  it's  a  line  country  to  dnvolop  tho  physical, 
but  heavy  and  uninteresting,  a  thoroughly  practic^id 
nation,  with  little  liking  for  an  ideal  e.xistinee.  Hut  look 
at  this,"  and  he  jjushed  tho  soiled  seraii  of  paper  toward 
me;  "  I  supiKKSo  you  have  your  father's  line  tastes.  Do 
you  see  anything  remarkable  hero  ?" 

I  frankly  avowed  that  I  did  not. 

"  Take  tho  glass  and  examine  it  closely.  What,  what ! 
can't  you  see  the  touches  of  a  master's  hand  '!  " 

I  held  the  glass  at  the  right  focus,  and  looked  with  all 
my  eyes,  but  I  could  only  discover  a  few  faded,  vague 
scratches,  that  presented  neither  form  nor  meaning.  "  I 
am  sorry,"  1  said,  humbly,  "but  I  don't  understand  ia 
the  least  what  it  is.'' 

"  Well,  why  should  you  ?  If  you  did,  you  would  know 
as  much  as  I  do,  and  that  can't  bo  e.xi)eeted.  That  scrap 
of  paper  was  sent  me  by  my  old  friend,  General  Obaldi, 
■  who  has  a  renuvrkably  fine  collection  of  original  draw- 
ings. He  came  across  this  in  some  out-of-the-way  place, 
and  sent  it  to  me  to  see  if  I  could  make  it  out.  And 
what  do  you  think  it  is  ?  " 

I  ^liook  my  head ;  it  was  a  mystery  to  me. 

"  Why,  it's  no  less  a  thing,  that  soiled  scrap  of  paper, 
than  Kai)hatd's  first  motive,  first  rougii  sketch,  for  tho 
'  Msion  of  Ezekiel,'  now  iu  the  I'itti  Palace  in  Florence. 


•  '"». 


HHIAST. 


l'tH,ON-K. 


m 


lid  fricnil  in  iiiohI 
di  un  intruductiou 

iked  at  uw  closely, 
II  than  your  cliihl- 
you  luivo  bi'i'ii  in 
vu  you  not  ?  " 

slop  tlio  pliysiciil, 
)ronglily  iiriu!ti(!al 
istincf.  Hut  look 
p  of  iiupur  toward 
'a  line  tastes.     Do 


ely.     What,  what ! 

i  iiand  ?  " 

nd  looked  with  all 
few  faded,  vague 
nov  meaning.     "  I 

)n't  understand  ia 

d,  you  would  know 
L'cted.  That  serap 
d,  General  Obaldi, 
of  original  tlraw- 
it-of-the-way  place, 
nake  it  out.     And 

to  me. 

ed  scrap  of  paper, 
gli  sketch,  for  the 
L^ilace  iu  Florence. 


I've  no  doul)t  of  it;  I  can  niaki  ii»it  the  uuuipuitiliuu  per- 
fectly  ;  it's  a  trcasuic,  a  little  fgeim,'** 

"  is  it  posnihlc  '.'  I  n.'Vf  r  drc.uned  that  it  was  of  any 
value!"  1  replied,  (piite  awed  \>\  his  wonderful  knowl- 
edge. 

"  Value  !  ah,  one  can't  set  any  value  on  such  things ; 
tiiey  are  uniipic,  almost  prici  less.  IJy  the  way,  where  is 
your  fatiier's  picture  —  the  l[<'ad  with  the  black  ber- 
retta  '.'  Did  it  go  to  Englauil  with  you  ?  I  was  out  of 
I'rance  when  your  fatlu'r  died  so  suddenly.  1  was  sent 
for  by  the  Kniperor  of  .\ustria  to  give  my  opinion  on  a 
floubtful  picture.  It  was  the  must  stupid  thing  I  ever 
hearil  of.  Those  thick-headed  (jlermans  had  attributed 
it  to  Di'irer,  and  what  should  it  prove  to  be  but  a  Mengs. 
Totally  ditferent,  you  know,  in  style  and  manner.  Ah  I 
what  a  commotio"  there  was  when  I  exposed  their 
stupidity  ";  and  at  the  retiollection  the  little  connoisseur 
threw  himself  back  iu  his  chair,  and  laughed  heartily. 
"To  call  a  Mengs  a  Diirer ! "'  he  continued,  wi[iing  his 
eyf>s  and  adjusting  his  glasses.  "  It  was  too  ridiculous. 
Well,  they  had  to  swallow  their  niortitication,  for  they 
did  not  dar"  disagree  with  me  when  I  gave  a  verdict. 
There  was  some  doubt  about  your  father's  jiicture  — 
some  obscurity  about  the  history;  but  the  first  glance 
was  sufficient  to  decide  me.  It  is  an  exami)le  of 
Kaiihael's  best  period  —  his  purest  style,  before  he  was 
influenced  by  Micliael  Augelo's  bolder  manner." 

"  It  is  of  that  picture  that  I  have  called  to  speak  to 
you,"  I  said,  with  a  dreadful  trembling  at  my  heart. 
"It  is  not  in  my  possession.     It  is  lost." 

"Lost!  Mon  Dieu!  What  do  you  mean?  A  pic- 
ture like  that  cannot  be  lost,  no  more  than  St.  Peter's 
could  be.     The  world  is  not  large  enough  to  lose  it  in." 


^wiiiii.ifeiiii 


1-2:2 


THK   STOKV    OF   AN    KNTHUSIAST. 


"  Nevertheless,  I  fear  every  trace  of  it  is  gone.  Whea 
uiy  father  died  so  suddenly,  my  uncle  and  Lord  Hard- 
nioor,  whom  he  had  chosen  as  my  guardians,  came  from 
England  to  arrange  his  affairs,  and  to  take  me  back  with 
them.  Tliey  thought  it  best  to  sell  the  collection  at 
auction.  It  was  done  hastily,  without  proper  considera- 
tion, and  that  picture  was  put  up  for  sale  with  the 
others,  and  catalogued  as  an  Andrea  Mantegua,  but  was 
sold  only  as  a  copy  of  that  master,  and  there  seems  no 
way  of  finding  out  who  purchased  it." 

<'JVom  de  Dicu !  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  they 
were  guilty  of  such  a  sacrilege  as  that." 

"Lord    Hardmoor    would  not  allow  that  it  was  a 

Raphael." 

"Lord  Hardmoor!  Oh,  I  know  him  —  an  art  ^/«em- 
teur,  a  connoisseur,  a  great  overgrown  English  ass.  Why, 
he  knows  more  about  a  pig  than  he  does  about  a  picture, 
and  in  the  face  of  my  decision  he  dared  to  do  that !  As  I 
live,  I  will  make  him  the  laughing-stock  of  the  whole 
Continent.  It  is  as  much  as  my  reputation  is  worth  to 
allow  such  an  affront  to  pass  unnoticed.  This  very 
day  I  will  write  the  most  scathing  article  I  am  capable 
of  for  the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes,  aud  place  this  English 
littemteur  connoisseur  blockhead  in  his  true  position." 

"  But  that  Avould  be  very  injudicious,"  I  interrupted, 
«  for  it  would  destroy  every  chance  of  my  gaining  pos- 
session of  the  picture.  You  can  see  that  such  an  article 
would  at  once  attract  attention,  and  the  fortunate 
owner,  learning  .the  value  of  his  property,  would  never 
be  Aviliing  to  part  with  it,  unless  he  was  paid  a  price  far 
beyond  my  modest  means." 

"That  is  true  ;  my  dear  boy,  you  have  more  practical 
sense  than  I  have,  but  I  am  too  indignant  to  be  reasou- 


s^s#r^' 


ENTHUSIAST. 

face  of  it  is  gone.  When 
y  uuclo  and  Lord  Hard- 
iny  guardians,  came  from 
vnd  to  take  me  back  with 
to  sell  the  collection  at 
ft'ithout  proper  considera- 
;  up  for  sale  with  the 
iidrea  Mantegna,  but  was 
ister,  and  there  seems  no 
sed  it." 

't  mean  to  tell  me  they 
as  that." 
,ot  allow  that  it  was  a 

Lnow  him  —  an  art  littera- 
grown  English  ass.    Why, 
n  he  does  about  a  picture, 
le  dared  to  do  that !    As  I 
ghing-stock  of  the  whole 
ny  reputation  is  worth  to 
js   unnoticed.     This   very 
thing  article  I  am  capable 
lies,  and  place  this  English 
id  in  his  true  position," 
1  judicious,"  I  interrupted, 
hance  of  my  gaining  pos- 
an  see  that  such  an  article 
ition,   and    the    fortunate 
his  property,  would  never 
ess  he  was  paid  a  price  far 

y,  you  have  more  practical 
too  indignant  to  be  reasou- 


POl^ON^. 


123 


able.     J3o  you  know  how  much  your  father  paid  for  that 

picture  ?  " 

"  I  judge  from  an  entry  in  his  journal  that  he  gave 
about  three  hundred  thousand  francs  for  it.  I  know  he 
sacrificed  a  great  deal  to  possess  it." 

"  Mon  Dieti  !  Is  it  possible  ?  And  1  sui)pose  it  sold 
for  a  few  hundred.     Do  you  know  who  conducted  the 

sale  ?  " 

"Yes,  monsieur;   M.  Goudon,  a  dealer  in  the   Hue 

Drouet." 

"  Ah,  Goudon  I  1  know  liim,  and  he  is  an  honest  man. 
Come  with  me  ;  we  will  go  to  him  directly.  Perhaps  we 
may  learn  something  from  him.  He  should  know  to 
whom  the  picture  was  sold." 

On  our  way  to  the  Kue  Drouet  1  urged  upon  M. 
Michelet  the  necessity  of  using  the  utmost  caution  in 
our  inquiries  ;  «  for,"  said  T,  "  if  we  should  discover  the 
present  owner,  and  he  should  believe  the  picture  of  uo 
special  value,  he  might  be  induced  to  part  with  it  for  a 
reasonable  sum." 

"  If  you  find  it,  you  must  make  any  sacrifice  to  repos- 
sess it,"  said  M.  Michelet. 

"  I  am  determined  to,"  I  replied.  "  I  will  never  give 
up  the  search  until  I  find  it.  It  is  a  solemn  duty  I  owe 
to  my  father." 

M.  Goudon  was  at  his  desk,  and,  knowing  M.  Miche- 
let to  be  an  autocrat  in  the  art  market,  he  came  forward 
politely  and  offered  his  services. 

The  little  man  plunged  at  once  into  business.  "  Do 
you  remember,"  he  asked,  "  having  sold  a  collection  of 
paintings,  some  eight  or  nine  years  ago,  which  be- 
longed to  an  English  gentleman,  M.  Markland,  Kue  de 
Grenelle  ?  " 


t  ^..»y!**wt,ft»->-?V^^ 


-<MitoW)**«i'»i'w'iBtf '*'*"'*■' 


^.^^■^^...^:.u:^:^.- 


■Tl'iit'H-ni'ififtf~"i-"i'r  r*-' 


iJSM 


124 


THE   STOUY    OF   AN    KNTHUSIAST. 


"Oh,  yos,  perfectly  well,  luoiisiour,"  replied  the  dealer, 
promptly. 

"  Can  you  turn  to  your  Ixjuks  of  that  period  and  give 
me  the  names  of  the  ])ur('h;isers  and  the  prices  paid  ?  " 

"Certainly,  monsieur,"  and,  entering  an  inner  ottice,  he 
took  down  an  immense  ledger,  an'il  turned  over  the  pages 
until  he  came  to  an  entry  which  he  i)ointed  out, 
saying : — 

"  There,  monsieur,  is  the  copy  of  the  sales,  with  the 
names  of  the  pmndiasers  and  the  prices  paid." 

Together  M.  ;^[ichelet  and  I  scanned  the  column,  until 
we  came  to  the  record  we  sought :  "  Head  of  a  yountj  man, 
Andrea  Manteyna  ;  sold  as  a  coiiy,  for  iive  hundred  and 
fifty  francs.''     IJut  there  was  no  name  of  the  purchaser. 

"Why  is  this?"  asked  M.  Michelet,  pointing  to  the 
blank  after  the  price.  "  Do  you  not  know  who  bought 
tl.     picture  ?  " 

"No,  monsieur,  1  never  knew;  I  remember  the  inci- 
dent perfectly  well,  for  there  was  some  talk  among  the 
artists  of  its  having  been  attributed  to  Kaphael ;  but,  as 
it  was  given  to  me  to  sell  as  a  Mantegna,  I  had  no  right 
to  catalogue  it  under  any  other  name.  At  the  sale  there 
was  some  dispute  about  its  being  an  original  Mantegna, 
and  the  price  of  the  picture  was  consequently  ruined. 
When  it  was  put  up,  there  was  scarcely  a  bid  on  it, 
until  a  man,  who,  I  think,  Avas  a  Jew,  came  forward,  and 
said  it  was  a  tine  copy,  and  as  such  he  woidd  give  five 
hundred  and  fifty  francs  for  it ;  no  more  was  offered,  and 
I  accepted  his  price,  as  I  was  instructed  to  sell  the  col- 
lection without  reserve  to  the  highest  bidder." 
"  And  did  the  buyer  give  no  name  ?  " 
"  Not  that  I  recollect.  He  paid  for  it  as  soon  as 
the  sale  was  over,  and  took  it  away  with  him,     I  remein- 


^f^ssr 


"~> 


SIAST. 


I'OLONJi. 


125 


eplieil  the  dealer, 

,t  period  and  give 
he  i)rices  paid  ?  " 
an  inner  ottiee,  he 
ed  over  the  pages 
he   pointed   out, 

le  sales,  with  the 
1  paid." 

the  column,  until 
d  of  a  youny  7)ian, 
live  hundred  and 
of  the  purchaser. 
t,  pointing  to  the 
know  Avho  bought 

imeniber  the  inci- 
e  talk  among  the 
)  llaphael ;  but,  as 
ua,  I  had  no  right 
At  the  sale  there 
riginal  Mantegna, 
iisequently  ruined. 
i-cely  a  bid  on  it, 
came  forward,  and 
le  woidd  give  five 
re  was  offered,  and 
ed  to  sell  the  col- 
bidder." 

for  it  as  soon  as 
th  him.     I  remem- 


ber the  incident,  as  I  said  before,  perfectly,  because  1 
thought  a  remarkably  line  picture  had  been  sacrificed. 
Had  1  been  inclined  to  take  advantage  of  the  owner's 
ignorance,  1  should  have  given  a  dozen  times  tliat  price 
for  it  myself." 

"  I  don't  see  that  you  were  in  any  way  to  blame,  ]M. 
Goudon.  The  picture  was  an  original.  1  had  seen  it 
and  pronounced  upon  it ;  therefore  there  should  have 
been  no  discussion  about  it.  If  tlie  picture  ever  conies 
under  your  notice  again,  let  me  know  directly  :  I  am 
interested  in  it." 

"Certainly  I  will,  and  such  a  thing  is  possible.  I 
have  sold  the  same  pictures  over  and  over  again." 

As  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  said,  we  wished  the 
dealer  good-morning,  and  went  away  ;  I  with  a  heavy 
heart,  and  M.  Michelet  burning  with  indignation. 

When  we  were  well  out  of  hearing,  the  little  man 
could  contain  himself  no  longer.  "  It  is  the  most 
shameful  proceeding,  the  greatest  outrage  upon  art,  that 
I  ever  heard  of,"  he  exclaimed ;  "  a  picture  that  cost  a 
small  fortune,  given  away,  and,  worse  still,  my  reputation 
injured  by  the  stupidity  of  these  asses.  But  we  will  not 
be  discouraged ;  as  I  said  before,  the  world  is  not  large 
enough  to  hide  such  a  picture  for  long.  It  will  turn  up 
somewiiere  by  and  by,  and,  my  dear  boy,  you  wii'  have 
some  one  to  assist  you  in  your  search ;  for  I  swear  that 
I  will  do  all  I  can  to  help  you  find  it ;  and  when  you 
once  more  have  it  in  your  possession,  the  world  shall 
know  its  history,  and  it  will  make  an  interesting  chap- 
ter in  the  chronicles  of  art." 

After  that,  for  weeks  M.  Michelet  and  1  searched 
throughout  Paris  for  the  precious  picture.  Every  col- 
lection, public   or   private,    tluit  we    could   gain   access 


M. 


.-«SSf«8^ 


i^titk^^t^m  iji».t 


I2f) 


THK   STOKY   OF   AN    liNTHUSIAST. 


to,  was  visited.  The  dealers  overhauled  their  stock 
thoroughly,  allowing  M.  .^liehelet  to  investigate  every 
obscure  nook  and  worm-eaten,  dusty  canvas.  Every 
Jew's  shop;  every  bric-a-brac  establislnaent ;  every  attic 
and  cellar  where  old  traps  were  stored,  met  with  close 
attention.  But  in  vain ;  of  the  hundreds  of  panels  and 
canvases  that  we  examined,  there  were  none  that  bore 
the  stamp  of  the  divine  master's  genius. 

•'  It  must  have  been  taken  away  from  Paris,"  I  said, 
when  we  finally  abandoned  our  search. 

"  I  fear  so,"  replied  M.  Michelet ;  "  but  have  patience, 
and  we  will  find  it  yet.  I  have  an  impression  that  you 
will  come  across  it  when  you  least  expect  it." 


IV. 

The  unfortunate  loss  of  my  picture,  which  M.  Michelet 
considered  the  greatest  disaster  that  could  have  befallen 
me,  excited  all  his  interest  and  sympathy ;  and  from  the 
day  of  our  first  meeting  he  became  a  faithful  and 
sincere  friend.  I  very  soon  made  him  acquainted  with 
my  father's  wislie3  regarding  my  future,  as  well  as  with 
my  own  predilection  for  art,  and  consulted  him  concern- 
ing a  teacher  and  the  most  advantageous  way  of  pursu- 
ing my  studies. 

At  that  time  it  was  difficult  to  decide  ou  a  master. 
There  were  several  schools,  all  possessing  many  advan- 
tages, but  no  two  agreeing  in  the  technicalities  of  art ; 
while  between  them  there  existed  the  bitterest  rivalry, 
as  well  as  the  strongest  partisanship. 

The  most  popular  schools  were  those  of  Vernet,  Gros, 
and  Guerin,  either  of  which  I  was  desirous  of  entering; 
but  M.  Michelet  would  say  quietly :  "  Do  not  hurry  to 


■^ 


J8IAST. 

Ailed  theii'  stock 
investigate  every 
y  canvas.  Every 
nient ;  every  attic 
d,  met  with  close 
eds  of  panels  and 
re  none  that  bore 
s. 
iMU  Paris,"  I  said, 

but  have  patience, 
ipression  that  you 
lect  it." 


which  M.  Michelet 
ould  have  befallen 
ithy  ;  and  from  the 
lie  a  faithful  and 
m  acquainted  with 
ire,  as  well  as  with 
lulted  him  concern- 
eous  way  of  pursu- 

lecide  on  a  master, 
i'ssing  many  advan- 
3chnicalities  of  art ; 
he  bitterest  rivalry, 

3se  of  Vernet,  Gros, 
isirous  of  entering ; 
;  "  Do  not  hurry  to 


POLONY. 


127 


decide ;  look  around  you  carefully,  study  well  the  works 
of  the  different  artists,  and  when  yoa  Hud  one  tliat 
speaks  t"  your  soul,  take  him  for  yo\»r  master." 

At  last  came  the  day  for  the  opening  of  the  Salon, 
where  I  could  have  an  opportunity  of  studying  the  dif- 
ferent famous  painters  of  the  time,  llow  beautiful  and 
impressive  it  seemed  to  me,  this  temi)le  of  Art,  whore 
each  of  her  votaries  offered  his  best;  where  the  admir- 
ing crowd  came  and  went,  with  smiles  and  words  of 
homage  for  those  who,  after  years  of  toil,  had  reached 
wliat  appeared  to  me  to  be  the  summit  of  success. 

Among  the  nuiny  remarkable  pictures,  one  attracted 
universal  attention.  It  was  the  "  Death-bed  of  Leonardo 
da  Vinci,"  the  first  important  work  of  Ingres,  then  al- 
most unknown  to  fame. 

"  There,"  said  M.  Michelet,  "  is  the  finest  picture  in 
the  exhibition.  It  bears  the  divine  stamp,  the  unmis- 
takable imprint  of  genius.  At  last  the  world  recognizes 
it,  and  awards  the  artist  tardy  but  genuine  admiration. 
Mo7i  enfant,  he  is  the  master  for  you,  and  you  will  be 
fortunate  to  find  so  truthful  a  guide  among  so  many  that 
are  false." 

M.  Michelet's  words  delighted  me ;  while  looking  at 
the  picture  I  felt  its  power,  and  already  I  had  decided 
that  I  had  found  the  master  I  could  follow  with  love 
and  reverence.  So  I  said  eagerly  :  "  Is  it  possible  for  me 
to  gain  admittance  to  M.  Ingres'  school.  I  know  but 
little  ;  I  am  so  ignorant  I  should  be  far  behind  his  other 
pupils.  I  fear  he  will  not  wish  to  be  troubled  with  a 
scholar  little  advanced  beyond  tlie  simple  rudiments  of 
art." 

"  I  will  undertake  to  arrange  all  tliat  with  him.     He  is 
my  friend,  and  will  do  what  I  wish  ;  besides,  he  owes  me 


128 


TlilC   tjTOKY   OF   AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


something  for  my  favorable  opinion  of  his  picture," 
replied  M.  Miehelet,  with  an  amusing  grimace,  "and  he 
will  be  anxious  to  do  me  a  favor.  But  don't  think  too 
meanly  of  your  own  ability;  you  have  talent,  and,  witli 
that,  knowledge  comes  easily.  I  venture  to  say  tliat  you 
will  soon  overtake  his  most  i)romising  pupil.  Ah,  here 
he  comes  now ;  he  is  M.  I'aul  Fabrien,  and  he  will  one 
day  astonish  the  world,  or  I  know  nothing  of  art." 

I  turned,  and  saw  a  tall,  slender  young  man,  with 
rather  ashy,  nervous  manner,  approaching  us.  M.  Miche- 
let  welcomed  him  heartily,  and  then  presented  him 
to  me,  remarking,  at  the  same  time,  that  I  was  about  to 
become  a  fellow-student  in  M.  Ingres'  school. 

I  looked  at  this  youth  with  no  little  curiosity ;  he  was 
a  genius,  he  was  favored  of  the  gods,  and  would  one  day 
astonish  the  world,  and  yet  there  was  nothing  uncom- 
mon about  him  to  denote  this  wonderful  gift.  His  face 
was  pure  and  kind,  and  his  words  simple  and  modest; 
but  when  he  raised  his  iine  eyes  to  the  glowing  canvas 
above  liim,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  soul  in  an  adorable 
expression  of  pride  and  gratification  at  his  master's 
success. 

"  And  so  you  are  here,  M.  Paul,  to  rejoice  with  all  the 
world  over  our  dear  Ingres'  good-fortune,"  cried  JI.  Miche- 
let,  gayly.  "  You  know  I  always  said  it  would  come, 
even  tliough  it  came  late,  and  I  have  not  a  reinitation 
for  mistakes.  He  is  the  first  painter  of  our  time,  and, 
M.  Paul,  I  think,  when  lie  leaves  us,  his  mantle  will  fall 
upon  you,  and  that  you  will  one  day  paint  a  great  picture. 
I  may  not  be  here  to  give  my  judgu.ent,  for  I  am  getting 
old ;  but  there  are  always  some  souls  to  whom  the  truth 
appeals,  and  they  enlighten  and  influence  the  rest  of 
mankind.     Follow   your    good    master,  and   study   ua- 


-mi^m^ 


rUUSIAST. 

on  of  his  picture," 
ig  grimace,  "and  he 
IJut  (lou't  think  too 
xve  talent,  and,  witli 
itnre  to  say  tliat  you 
ing  pupil.  Ah,  here 
ien,  and  he  will  one 
othing  of  art." 
!r  young  man,  with 
lohing  us.  M.  Miche- 
then   presented  him 

that  I  was  about  to 
■s'  school. 

tie  curiosity ;  he  was 
s,  and  would  one  day 
was  nothing  unconi- 
L'rful  gift.     His  face 

simple  and  modest; 

the  glowing  canvas 
s  soul  in  an  adorable 
;ion   at  his  master's 

o  rejoice  with  all  the 
une,"  cried  JI.  Miche- 
said  it  would  come, 
ive  not  a  reputation 
ter  of  our  time,  and, 
3,  his  mantle  will  fall 
paint  a  (/rent  picture, 
i.ent,  for  I  am  getting 
Is  to  whom  the  truth 
nfluence  the  rest  of 
ister,  and   study  ua- 


POLONiE. 


129 


ture  faithfully ;  that  is  all  you  have  to  do  in  order  to 
produce  something  that  France  will  be  proud  of." 

A  deep  flush  passed  over  the  delicate  face  of  the 
young  i)ainter,  and  his  eyes  grew  misty  as  he  grasped 
iM.  Michelet's  hand  and  stammered  out  some  broken 
word  of  thanks ;  then,  to  hide  his  emotion,  he  bowed 
hurriedly  and  darted  away  among  the  crowd. 

'•  The  heart  of  a  woman  and  the  courage  of  a  lion," 
said  M.  Michelet,  following  him  with  his  eyes  until  he 
was  lost  in  the  crowd. 


Before  another  week  passed  I  was  established  in  M. 
Ingres'  school. 

When  I  iirst  saw  the  great  artist  surrounded  by  his 
scholars,  profound  discouragement  seized  me,  and  I  felt 
timid  and  incapable ;  but  his  benignant  face,  his  gentle 
manners,  and,  more  than  all,  the  perfect  confidence  and 
affection  existing  between  him  and  his  pupils,  reas- 
sured me. 

There  were  at  that  time  in  M.  Ingres'  studio  more 
than  a  dozen  young  men,  all  of  them  under  twenty-five,  of 
singularly  winning  manners,  fine  faces,  and  well  devel- 
oped figures,  while  most  of  them  gave  promise  of  no 
mean  talents. 

The  study  was  from  the  nnde,  and  the  model  was  the 
famous  Polonae.  I  shall  never  forget  my  first  impres- 
sion of  that  Apollo  of  the  North.  At  a  glance  I  felt 
that  his  face  of  godlike  beauty  was  but  a  mask  that  con- 
cealed a  mystery,  that  a  tragedy  of  passion,  a  scathing  sor- 
row, had  blighted  and  seared  all  but  the  outward  man. 
His  figure  was  noble  and  plastic,  his  features  of  the 


130 


TMK    STOIIY    OK    AN    KNTIIUHIAST. 


purest  classic  (IcsiKii ;  his  tine  eyes,  of  no  deeiilcil  color, 
held  in  their  depths  smouldering  tire  and  lurid  shadows, 
which  haunted  one  with  their  strange  intensity.  The 
haughty  curve  of  his  lips,  the  proud  poise  of  his  liead, 
the  light  glossy  masses  of  hair  clustering  around  a  fore- 
head as  pure  and  candid  as  a  child's,  the  finely  devel- 
oped chest  and  limbs,  the  slender,  nervous  hands  and 
shapely  feet,  were  all  modelled  as  perfectly  as  a  statue  of 
Phidias. 

I  was  enraptured  with  him.  No  ardent  lover  ever  ad- 
mired the  idol  of  his  heart  more  genuinely  than  did  I 
the  famous  model.  He  was  the  reality  of  the  Greek 
ideal,  and  often,  instead  of  working,  I  stood  silently 
gazing  at  him,  my  brushes  idle  in  my  inert  fingers  ;  but 
M.  Ingres  seemed  satisfied  with  my  progress  —  he  knew 
I  was  studying  my  model,  learning  him,  as  it  were. 
The  beautiful  proportions,  the  noble  lines,  the  plastic 
muscles,  all  were  being  transferred  to  my  mind.  I  was 
beginning  to  see  and  understand  the  beauty  of  nature. 

One  day  I  looked  away  from  Polonae  and  saw  M. 
Ingres  watching  me  with  a  smile  of  satisfaction. 

"  You  are  right,"  he  said ;  "  study  well  what  you  see 
before  you.  Your  model  has  all  the  excellence  of  the 
antique.  The  old  painters  did  not  try  to  improve  upon 
their  models.  I  mean  by  that  that  they  followed 
nature  as  they  saw  it.  If  you  copy  truthfully  what  is 
there,  you  will  go  on  as  they  did,  and,  like  them,  you 
will  reach  the  beautiful ;  but  if  you  try  to  correct  nature, 
you  will  produce  only  what  is  false,  ambiguous,  and  ridic- 
ulous. Your  efforts  will  always  be  worthy  when  they 
are  truthful.  All  the  errors  you  make  are  not  because 
you  have  not  enough  talent,  imagination,  and  ability,  but 
because  you  do  not  understand  what  the  Divine  Master 


rsiAST. 

lo  (leeiilcil  color, 
id  lurid  shadows, 
I  intensity.  The 
)oise  of  his  head, 
ng  around  a  fore- 
the  finely  devel- 
rvous  hands  and 
!tly  as  a  statue  of 

3nt  lover  ever  ad- 
linely  than  did  I 
ity  of  the  Greek 

I  stood  silently 
nert  fingers ;  but 
jgress  —  he  knew 
him,  as  it  were, 
lines,  the  plastic 
my  mind.  I  was 
auty  of  nature, 
jnae  and  saw  M. 
isf  action, 
ell  what  you  see 
excellence  of  the 

to  improve  upon 
it  they  followed 
ruthfully  what  is 
d,  like  them,  you 

to  correct  nature, 
jiguous,  and  ridic- 
orthy  when  they 
)  are  not  because 
a,  and  ability,  but 
16  Divine  Master 


POLON^I':. 


131 


h;is  given  you  to  study.  Our  high-priest  of  art  knew 
wi'U  that  secret,  and  went  to  the  fountain-head  of  life  and 
beauty  for  his  inspiration.  Kaphael  and  the  living  model 
arc  synonymous.  Nature  was  his  teacher;  and  he  was 
modest  and  submissive  before  her,  although  he  was  Raph- 
ael. Then,  be  humble  before  nature.  Art  nev?t^  reaches 
sohigli  a  degree  of  perfection  as  when  it  so  closely  resem- 
bU's  her  as  to  be  mistaken  for  her;  and  the  more  you  con- 
ceal the  art,  the  more  worthy  are  you  to  be  ranked 
among  the  best." 

Every  word  that  fell  from  the  lips  of  our  revered 
master  was  treasured  as  a  jewel  of  wisdom  in  the  devoted 
hearts  of  his  pupils.  We  gathered  around  him  like 
children  listening  to  a  beloved  father,  while  he  encour- 
aged, counselled,  and  advised,  rejoiced  at  our  success  or 
almost  Avept  with  us  over  our  many  failures. 

Gentle,  benignant  soul !  he  himself  had  struggled 
through- dark  days  and  many  discouragements;  therefore 
he  knew  liow  to  sympathize  with  every  phase  of  an 
artist's  career. 

In  all  the  three  years  that  I  passed  in  M.  Ingres' 
studio,  I  cannot  recall  a  single  misunderstanding  be- 
tween us.  There  seemed  to  be  no  envy  nor  malice,  but 
a  hearty,  honest  comradeship,  a  thorough  interest,  a 
mutual  phiasure  in  success  and  a  corresponding  grief  at 
a  failure,  and  no  petty  feelings  of  jealousy  detracted 
aught  from  those  superior  in  genius,  while  they  in  turn 
encouraged  and  assisted  those  less  gifted. 

VI. 

Among  all  of  my  fellow-students,  Paul  Fabrien  held 
the  first  place  in  my  friendship.     The  extreme  gentle- 


132 


TIIK   STOUY    OK   AN    KNTIU'SIAST. 


noBs  iind  sincerity  of  his  character,  and,  abo'o  all,  his 
remarkable  genius,  niatlo  him  an  especial  favorite  of  both 
master  and  pupilfi.  Without  fortune  or  friends  lie  had 
come  alone  to  Paris,  to  make  his  own  way  in  his  pro- 
fession. 

When  I  first  knew  him,  he  lodged  in  a  miserable 
little  attic  in  the  Rue  Mazarine,  where  he  was  obliged  to 
resort  to  the  most  pitiful  economy  in  or<ler  to  exist. 
And  that  winter  even  the  wealthy  suffered  from  the 
severity  of  the  weather.  For  weeks  the  cold  was  so  in- 
tense that  our  studio  was  never  sufficiently  heated,  even 
with  a  large  fire.  Then  how  our  poor  Paul  must  have 
suffered,  when,  as  I  afterward  learned,  he  never  had  a 
scrap  of  fuel  in  his  dreary  lodging;  often,  I  know,  he 
must  have  been  cold  and  hungry,  yet  he  never  com- 
plained, and  his  courage  and  patience  never  wavered 
under  the  severe  discipline  of  poverty. 

One  evening,  wishing  to  borrow  a  work  on  composi- 
tion, which  I  knew  he  had,  I  climbed  to  his  attic.  The 
weather  was  intensely  cold,  and  I  had  left  a  bright  fire 
in  my  own  comfortable  apartment,  but  I  found  my  poor 
friend's  hearth  unlighted,  and  he  covered  up  in  his  bed 
in  order  to  keep  warm,  working,  by  the  feeble  light  of  a 
small  lamp,  on  his  cartoon  for  his  prize  picture. 

For  a  moment  he  appeared  embarrassed  at  my  discover- 
ing his  poverty  ;  then,  smiling,  he  said,  with  his  usual 
serenity :  "You  see  I  am  trying  to  do  something,  but  one 
cannot  work  well  when  one  is  cold.  The  imagination  is 
sluggish  like  the  blood.  Art  flourishes  best  on  high 
things,  on  warmth,  light,  and  joy.  It  will  not  perish  of 
heat,  but  cold  kills  it.  Ah,  well!  one  can  reach  an 
honorable  position  only  through  pain,  self-denial,  and 
tears.     He  who  has  not  suffered  does  not  believe." 


I 


"1 


IIITSIAST. 

and,  abo'o  all,  his 
cial  favorite  of  both 
I  or  friends  he  hiul 
•n  way  in  his  pro- 
fed  in  a  miserable 
re  he  was  obliged  to 

in  order  to  exist. 
'  suffered  from  the 

the  cold  was  so  in- 
ciently  heated,  even 
)or  Paul  must  have 
led,  he  never  had  a 
;  often,  I  know,  he 
,  yet  he  never  com- 
?nce  never  wavered 

I  work  on  composi- 
i  to  his  attic.  The 
id  left  a  bright  fire 
lut  I  found  my  poor 
vered  up  in  his  bed 
the  feeble  light  of  a 
fize  picture, 
assed  at  my  discover- 
said,  with  his  usual 
lo  something,  but  one 
The  imagination  is 
fishes  best  on  high 
It  will  not  perish  of 
!  one  can  reach  an 
pain,  self-denial,  and 
»s  not  believe." 


roroNiH. 


1J?3 


IliH  gentle  resignation  to  so  cruel  a  desiiuy  moved  nit! 
deeply.  Wa.s  it  right  that  I,  wlio  had  so  iiiueli  of  waniiMi 
anil  light,  should  leave  my  I'lieud  to  suffer  from  eold  and 
darkness  ?  I  knew  ho  was  too  proud  to  accept  charity ; 
so,  appearing  to  be  interesteil  in  the  remarkable  sketches 
scattered  about  the  room,  I  tried  to  think  of  some  plan 
whereby  I  could  assist  him  without  wounding  his 
pride. 

"What  do  you  think  of  this  study?  "  ho  asked,  hold- 
ing up  a  group  of  figures  in  chalk. 

It  was  (deverly  managed,  and  I  told  him  so. 
"  1  suppose  it  has  some  good  points,  but  T  am  working 
in  the  dark.     I  need  models  constantly." 

"  So  do  I,"  I  replied,  a  happy  thought  striking  me, 
"and  I  must  ask  a  favor  of  you,  my  dear  Taul.  You 
know  I  am  behind  all  the  others  of  our  class,  and  I  want 
you  to  help  mc  study  evenings.  Uy  room  is  large,  and 
I  will  engage  Polonic,  and  while  I  am  working  from  him 
you  can  make  your  studies  as  you  please  ;  only  do  me  the 
favor  to  criticise  me  occasionally.  I  must  have  this 
extra  practice,  or  I  shall  not  be  able  to  compete  for  the 
prize  next  year." 

My  proposal  delighted  him.  He  thanked  me  warmly, 
clasping  both  my  hands  in  his.  I  knew  it  was  his 
dearest  wish  to  study  from  I'olonai  out  of  class  hours, 
and  I  also  knew  that  the  five  francs  charged  for  each 
hour  the  famous  model  posed  was  beyond  his  scanty 
income. 

From  that  time  my  room  became  an  evening  studio. 

And  more  than  one  of  our  class  would  drop  in  for  an 

hour  or  two  —  to  chat,  smoke,  criticise,  or  work,  as  they 

preferred. 

After  our  studies  were  over,  I  always  improvised  a 


1:J4 


TIIK  8TOUV   or   AN    KNTIIL'HIAST. 


r 


,^ 


littlo  HiippiT  of  gooil  will!!,  hiciiil,  clmi'Hc,  luul  Hausnyf, 
whicli  wo  j'lijoyoil  tjrcatly,  simh()11"(1,  as  it  was,  witli 
bright  fitorii's,  huiikh,  ami  much  lif,'lit-l»'arti>(l  lau^'hU'r. 

I'uldiia'  would  strtftcli  liis  liuilis  to  n-lax  liis  HtilTcncd 
inuHclcs  as  he  canu'  to  join  us.  Scati'il  at  tlu!  tablo  with 
\is,  ho  was  no  longer  our  uuulcl,  but  a  roniarkably  iiitelli- 
gout  and  amusing  companion.  Thoro  was  a  mystory 
about  him,  which  every  student  in  M.  Ingres'  school  had 
tried  to  fathom.  One  of  our  class,  Caniille  do  lireuourt. 
a  rich  young  viscount,  who  went  into  the  best  society 
in  Taris,  declared  that  he  had  seen  I'olome  a 
favored  guest  in  some  of  the  Hrst  sa/oiis,  and  had  recog- 
nized him,  although  he  maintained  a  severe  and  haughty 
incognito  under  a  I'olish  title. 

One  evening,  after  he  left  us,  we  were  discussing  him, 
as  we  often  did,  for  nothing  makes  a  person  so  interest- 
ing as  a  little  mystery  about  him. 

"I  believe  he  is  a  I'olish  noble  in  disguise,"  said 
Camille.  "What  manners!  What  an  intellect!  His 
conversation  is  charming.  At  times  he  is  courtly,  ele- 
gant. Ah !  he  is  no  common  nnin,  with  his  cultivation 
and  refinement.  TU  swear  that  he  is  a  scholar,  and 
knows  more  than  any  of  us." 

"Perhaps  he  is  one  of  the  students  of  Wilna  who 
escaped  bnnishment  or  imprisonment,"  said  I'aul,  "and 
is  in  concealment  until  more  fortunate  days  dawn  on  his 
unhappy  country." 

"That  is  not  unlikely,"  exclaimed  Camille,  "for  it 
was  at  Trince  Czartoryski's  that  I  first  recognized  him. 
I  did  not  mean  to  betray  him.  I  gave  him  a  covert  smile 
of  intelligence,  which  he  met  with  a  stony  stare.  I 
could  swear  it  was  he ;  there  is  no  other  face  in  the  world 
like  his,  and  his  whole  appearance  is  uncommon.    I  be- 


JHI.V.ST. 


I'oI.oS.K. 


Wi 


as  it  was,  with 
'iU'ti'd  lau^htor. 
I'lax  his  Htifft'iu'd 

at  tho  tai)h'  with 
•I'luuikably  iiitoUi- 

0  was  a  niysti'ry 
liif^res'  scliool  had 
uille  do  liivcnurt. 

1  the  best  society 

seen    l'oh)iuc     a 

IS,  and  had  voc'oj,'- 

uvere  and  haughty 

ro  discussing;  him, 
)ei'sou  80  interest- 
in  disguise,"  said 
m  intellect!  His 
he  is  courtly,  ele- 
th  his  cultivation 
is  a  scholar,  and 

its  of  Wilna  who 
,"  said  I'aul,  "and 
i  days  dawn  on  his 

d  Caniille,  "  for  it 
st  recognized  him. 
;  liim  a  covert  smile 

a  stony  stare.  I 
er  face  in  the  world 

uncommon.    I  be- 


li«vt!  Paul  is  riglit  in  iiis  conjcrlnn-.  It'  you  iriiKiiilH'r, 
I'riufi'  Adam  (leorge  took  a  dw[)  intfrt'st  in  tlio 
\uitoitunatt)  students,  aiul  tried  to  save  tliem  from 
Siberia." 

"  lUit  why  does  he  follow  tlie  profession  of  a  model?" 
I  asked.  "  Witli  his  acconiplishnientH,  and  such  a  friend 
as  Prince  Ailam  (ieort,'c,  he  could  surely  find  some  occu- 
jjatinn  utovt  worthy  of  liini." 

"  [  fancy  he  can  earn  more  in  that  way  without  be- 
traying his  identity.  Ho  is<  seldom  seen  save  by  the 
HtudeMts,  and  t(.  the  most  of  them  he  is  only  a  model, 
but  to  me  he  is  a  mystery.  However,  I  shall  notdi.sturb 
him  by  trying  to  find  out  his  secret,"  added  Camille,  as 
he  left  us. 

After  that  conversation,  I  studied  I'olona;  more  closely. 
1  tried  to  penetrate  his  veil  of  reserve.  I  strove  to  show 
him  that  I  was  his  friend.  Something  in  his  passive 
face  touched  my  heart.  He  had  suffered.  He  was  my 
brotlier.  I  felt  drawn  to  him  by  no  common  bond  of 
sympathy.  Hour  after  hour,  while  ho  sat  outwardly 
motioidess  as  a  statue,  I  knew  by  the  white,  compressed 
lips  and  the  sombre  light  in  his  eyes  that  he  was  living 
over  again  some  terrible  tragedy  that  had  marred  his 
whole  life. 

Once  when  we  were  alone,  to  invite  his  confidence  I 
told  him  something  of  my  own  history,  and  ventured  to 
ask  him  some  simple  questions  respecting  his  childhood. 
When  I  mentioned  his  mother,  a  spasm  of  pain  contracted 
his  features  and  his  face  turned  livid. 

"  Oh,  you  hurt  me  ! "  he  groaned,  pressing  his  hand  to 
liis  heart.  "  At  that  adored  name  all  my  being  shudders 
in  agony.  You  are  my  friend.  I  know  it.  My  better 
nature  tells  me  that  your  interest  is  no  idle  curiosity.     1 


13() 


THR  STOUY   OF   AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


will   tell  you.     I  am  Volonce  the  model  only  while  I 
pose      When  that  is  over  1  am  an  unfortunate,  unhappy 
being,  an  exile  with  a  price  upon  my  head.    1  am  steeped 
in  misery,  sodden  with  the  blood  of  my  country.     My 
hands  have  been  wet  with  the  life-drops  of  those  I  would 
have  died  a  thousand  deaths  to  save.     Oh,  my  friend! 
what  a  mask  I  wear.    I  am  a  Polish  noble.     My  father 
traced  his  descent  from  the  Jagellons ;  his  ancestors  were 
heirs  of  the  kingdom.     The  blood  of  the  Sobieski  flowed 
in  my  mother's  veins.     We  were  a  lofty  race  and  we 
loved  Poland.      Our  country  was   more    than    father, 
mother,  wife,  or  children.     In  1795,  every  male  member 
of  our  family,  save  my  father,  who  was  too  young  tor 
the  sacrifice,  laid  down  his  life  freely  for  Poland.     In 
1806,  when  the  crucified  country  rose  against  the  Ger- 
mans, my  father  wns  a  leader  in  the  revolt.    My  mother 
followed  him  with  me,  a  babe  in  her  arms,  and  I  was 
sprinkled  with  his  blood  when  he  fell  bravely  fighting 
to  the  last.     Those  warm  drops  from  his  true  heart  con- 
secrated me  to  the  work.     Like  all  of  my  race,  I  was 
marked  for  the  sacrifice  ;  I  was  doomed  to  give  all  for 
my  country.     I  was  taught  from  my  cradle  that  neither 
•     lands  nor  wealth  nor  home  was  mine,  that  all  belonged 
to  Poland.     My  mother -I  can  see  her  now,  her  mem- 
ory is  ever  with  me.     I  revered  and  adored  her.    I  never 
disobeyed  her.    When  she  said,  '  My  son,  you  belong  to 
your  country.     Be  ready  when  you  are  called,'  I  simply 
replied,  '  I  am  ready,  my  mother.'     It  was  part  of  my 
nature  to  obey  her.     Her  pale,  solemn  face,  her  hollow 
eyes  dry  of  tears,  her  stern,  impressive  voice,  filled  me 
with  awe.    One  day  she  came  to  me,  and,  laying  her  thin 
hand  on  my  head,  she  said  calmly  and  irmly,  'My  son, 
you  are  called.      Czartoryski  calls  you.      Leave  your 


«Tf^ 


■i—^H't'iiLWfi  i_nM*iH!li- 


ENTHUSIAST. 

the  model  only  while  I 
ail  unfortunate,  unhappy 
n  my  head.    I  am  steeped 
ood  of  my  country.     My 
ife-drops  of  those  I  would 
to  save.     Oh,  my  friend ! 
Polish  noble.     My  father 
ellons ;  his  ancestors  were 
3od  of  the  Sobieski  flowed 
vere  a  lofty  race  and  we 
was   more    than    father, 
1795,  every  male  member 
r,  who  was  too  young  for 
ife  freely  for  Poland.     In 
itry  rose  against  the  Ger- 
in  the  revolt.    My  mother 
e  in  her  arms,  and  I  was 
in  he  fell  bravely  fighting 
js  from  his  true  heart  con- 
,ike  all  of  my  race,  I  was 
as  doomed  to  give  all  for 
om  my  cradle  that  neither 
as  mine,  that  all  belonged 
!an  see  her  now,  her  mem- 
ed  and  adored  her.    I  never 
aid,  '  My  son,  you  belong  to 
!n  you  are  called,'  T  simply 
other.'     It  was  part  of  my 
le,  solemn  face,  her  hollow 
,  impressive  voice,  filled  me 
3  to  me,  and,  laying  her  thin 
calmly  and  irmly,  '  My  son, 
ki  calls  you.      Leave  your 


roi-ONii-:. 


i:'.7 


tutor  and  your  books.    Poland  needs  you.'     She  pressed 
a  kiss  on  my  hair,  and  murmured,  'Give  your  he  if  it  is 
necessary.     Your  mother  bids  you  die  for   1  oland.      I 
had  one  sister,  a  flower  of  rare  beauty,  and  her  compan- 
ion was  a  maid  of  her  own  age,  about  fifteen  years,     bhe 
was  the  child  of  our  nurse,  a  Lithuanian,  with  all  the 
charm  of  her  race.     I  loved  this  wonderful  child  of  the 
people;  secretly  I  worshipped  her.     I  saw  her  always 
lith  my  sister,  and  non..  know  that  I  loved  her  to  adora- 
tion.    On  that  terrible  Kith  of  August,  fighting  madly 
bv  the   side   of   Prince   Czartoryski,  I   saw   a   luissian 
sddier  tear  my  shrieking  sister  from  the  arms  of  my 
another.     In  a  moment  I  was  upon  him.     My  sword  sev- 
erod  the  arm  that  held   her.     Released   fronj    his  vile 
elasp,she  fainted  on  my  breast,  only  lifting  her  swee 
eyes   to   whisper,  'Kill  me,  my  brother.      Without   an 
instant's  hesitation,  I  pierce.l  her  to  the  heart  and  laid 
lie"  dead  but  pure  in   my  mother's   arms.      My  hands 
were  wet  Vith  her  blood.     Later  in  the  day,  I  saw  niy 
foster-sister,  the  girl  I  loved,  trampled  under  the  feet  o 
a  horse  spurred  through   a  crowd  of   terrified   worn 
and  children  by  the  Russian  officer  who  -;^«  -^    .^^"^ 
at  this,"  and  he  raised  a  mass  of  thick  l;ght  ban  that 
covered  an  ugly  scar  on  his  forehead.     "  I  got  this  i.nrk 
from  the  hoof  of  the  horse  while  rescuing  her,  and  this 
wound  on  my  shoulder  from  the  sabre  of  the  oftieer  who 
trampled  her  down.     A  few  months  after,  I  --  ^^^ 
.irl  a  Polish  maiden,  the  haughty,  triumphant  misties 
of  the  Russnmwho  had  ridden  over  her  and  ravaged 
her  country.     Then  the  pains  of  hell  took  hold  of  m 
r.ut  enough  of  lier.     God's  vengeance  will  follow  hi 
My    mother -my   sainted   mother,   the   queen   of      e 
proud  race -was  charged  with  concealing  Prince  Cz.u- 


138  TIIK   STOUY   OF   AN   ENTHUSIAST. 

tovvski  after  all  ^vas  lost  and  he  had  disappeared.     She 
was  drlgqod  into  the  publie  s.pKiro,  insulted,  tortured 
and  finally  whipped  by  a  Russian  slave,  but  she  remamed 
s  1  nt,  preferrin    disgrace  and  death  rather  than  betray 
our  leader.      This  brutal   humiliation   lulled   her -she 
died  of  shame  while  I,  the  last  of  n.y  raee,  .vas  fleeing 
from  our  country  with  the  pri.ice  who.u  I  had  sworn  to 
serve.     We  escaped  together.     He  neede.l  me,  and  I  re. 
,„,i„ed   by  his   side  until  we   reached   Paris.     Here   1 
heard  of  my  mother's  death,  from  one  of  t -■    -thfu 
,vho  followed  us.     Since  then  lite  has  been  a  blank.     At 
times,  I  am  unconscious  of  my  surroundings.     \  on  won- 
der  how   I   can   remain    motionless    for   lumrs.      It   is 
because  my  soul  is  not  here.    It  is  because  I  am  Innng 
over  the  U-agedies  of  iny  life.     I  give  you  my  wretched 
Kodv  -it  is  like  a  lump  of  stone;  it  remains  where  you 
place' it.     But   I   keep  my  soul; -it  is   leagues   from 
here;  it  is  in  Poland;  it  is  in  our  old  home.     Again  1 
am  under  our  sunny  castle  wall,  with  my  kitor,   my 
books  my  dogs.     My  motner,  pale,  silent,  patient,  sits 
eir  wiiif  her' book  of  devotions.     Beneath  the  lindens 
T   see  my  tall,  fair  sister,  and  that  faithless  girl,  that 
demon  with  the  smile  of  an  angel.     The  golden  head  of 
the  Lithuanian  is  pressed  close  to  my  sister ;   she  raises 
the   soft,   dark   discs  of  her   eyes   to   the   stately    gnd 
bending  toward  her.    AVhat  a  divine  glance !    Who  could 
dream  of  the  vile   nature  hidden  under  that  adorable 
young  face.     Ah,  if  she  had  died  as  my  sister  died !  - 1 
iould  kiss  my  hands  in  gratitude  if  they  had  slam  he 
before  she  was  false.     Oh, .those  sweet,  pure  days!     I 
\vas  like  a  happy  child  frolicking  on  the  brink  of  ruin  : 
my  destiny  was  upon  me,  and  yet  I  was  happy      I  never 
dieamed  that  the  old  tradition  of  giving  all  for  loland 


5IAST. 

sappeared      She 
suited,  tortured, 
mt  slu;  remained 
her  than  betray 
ulled   lier  — she 
race,  was  fleeing 
I  had  sworn  to 
ed  nie,  and  I  re- 
Paris.     Here   I 
;  of  the  faithful 
een  a  blank.     At 
lings.     You  won- 
^r   hours.      It   is 
ause  I  am  living 
you  my  wretched 
?niains  where  you 
is   leagues   from 
.  home.     Again  I 
h  my  tutor,   my 
lent,  patient,  sits 
iieath  the  lindens 
iiithless  girl,  that 
le  golden  head  of 
sister ;   she  raises 
the    stately    girl 
ance!    Who  could 
ider  that  adorable 
ly  sister  died !  —  I 
;hey  had  slain  her 
•et,  pure  days!     1 
the  brink  of  ruin  : 
Eis  happy.    I  never 
ng  all  for  Poland 


POliONi*! 


i;i9 


meant  so  much.     I  thought  it  meant  only  wealth  and 
life  —  not  honor  and  love  as  well." 

Palo  and  exhausted  with  emotion,  he  paused  and 
wiped  the  drops  of  anguish  from  his  eyes.  Before  such 
a  sorrow  I  was  dumb.  How  could  I.  comfort  him  with 
conventional  words  of  kindness  and  sympathy  ?  I  was 
humbled  and  abashed.  INly  troubles,  great  as  I  had 
thou<'ht  them,  seeme.l  .so  little  and  so  consolable  com- 
pared to  his.  I  could  only  ch.sp  his  hand  silently,  but 
!ny  eyes  told  him  what  I  felt.  From  that  moment  he 
knew  he  had  a  friend  who  woidd  never  fail  him. 

An  hour  later,  when  some  of  the  students  dropped  in 
to  share  my  supper,  they  found  Polona-  sitting  with  me 
as  calm  and  courteous  as  usual.  He  had  wrapped  him- 
self again  in  his  impenetrable  reserve,  and  none  but 
myself  ever  knew  his  history. 

VII. 

I  HAD  been  in  Paris  ove    •■      ■  *  before  I  received  a 
letter  from  Lord  Hardmc    .     ^  .dosed  in  his  cold  for- 
mal epistle  was  a  dainty  little   note   from   Dorothea. 
Sweet  soul,  unconsciously,  in  her  little  school-girl  phrases 
she  told  more  of  her  anxiety  about  me,  and  her  interest 
Ml  all  that  concerned  me,  than  an  older  and  wiser  writer 
would  have  done.     I  slept  with  that  first  letter  under  my 
pillow.     I  carried  it  always  near  my  heart,  and  often  and 
often,  when  alone,  1  pressed  it  reverently  to  my  hps.    Bxit 
all  the  world  is  acquainted  with  such  episodes  of  youth- 
ful passion,  and  T  will  not  linger  over  my  boyish  demon- 
strations.    I  only  speak  of  my  pleasure  in  the  letter  to 
show  that  I  always,  loved  Dorethea,  that  from  the  very 
first  she  was  half  of  my  life.      I  "over  did  anything 


..^saaaJ^iaiiSiiP 


r 


140  THE  STOUV   OF   AN   ENTHUSIAST. 

Without  thinking  whether  she  would  approve  or  blame. 
Inever  looked  Into  the  future  with  the  boundless  con- 
fidrce  of  youth  that  I  did  not  see  her  by  my  s^de, 
sharintr  every  ioy  and  sorrow. 

W  Hardmoor  allowed  nxe  to  write  to  her  m  a  fra- 
texta  wny,  and  I  did  not  overstep  the  bounds  he  pre- 
scbd  Hi  l^ough  often  and  often  my  pen  would  huge 
over  t  e  paper-  in  tren.bling  indecision  whether  or  not 
to  pour  out  ill  my  soul,  all  n.y  love  to  the  sweet  gu-  .^ 
filled  all  my  thoughts.  But  I  forbore,  thinking  of  her 
youth  and  L  confidence  reposed  in  me,  and  resolved  to 
bide  my  time  until  the  happy  day  of  our  meeting. 

Neither  will  I  linger  over  the  three  years  spen     n  M. 
Ixlis'  studio.     Although  they  were  full  of  interest  to  me 
t  erwerrmarked  only  by  such  iucidents  as  are  common 
tieMe  of  an  art  student  in  Paris.     They  were  busy 
davs  in  the  society  of  our  beloved  master,  ennched  by 
theiy  of  the  most  beautiful  in  art  and  nature.    We 
daimed  to  be  disciples  of  the  beautiful.     We  were  young, 
enTusiastic,  and  deeply  in  earnest,  often  wild  and  irre- 
T)  essTbleinour  youthful  follies,  but,  I  think,  never  igno- 
re    otelass  was  made  up,  it  is  true,  of  diverse  ele- 
ments, but  there  was  a  certain  harmony  among  us,  nevei- 
Ses       Paul  Fabrien  was  the  purest,  gentlest  soul  of 
S  and  the  one  most  liberally  ^^j^^^^^^^ 
He  was  poor  and  patient,  passing  las  days  ot  toil     in 
^HiiTl  ving  and  liigh  thinking,"  while  he  oncourag  d 
t  idle  and  dissatisfied  to  greater  efforts  and  generously 
recognized  the  indications  of  superiority  in  others. 

Camille  de  r,r6court,  our  rich  idler,  was  handsome  high- 
bonia^^^d  generous,  overflowing  with  love  for  thebeauti- 
Swo-iapping  yet  never  expressing  unless  by  some 
happy  accident  or  inspiration  the  best  in  ait.     Wo  all 


^agy-j'- 


t^iMwm 


SI  AST. 

ppvove  or  blame. 
le  boundless  con- 
her  by  my  side, 

to  her  in  a  fra- 
le  bounds  he  pre- 

pen  would  linger 
11  whether  or  not 
;he  sweet  girl  who 
,  thinking  of  her 
B,  and  resolved  to 
ur  meeting. 

years  spent  in  M. 
11  of  interest  to  me 
nts  as  are  common 
They  were  busy 
Ulster,  enriched  by 
■tand  nature.     We 
[.     We  were  young, 
tten  wild  and  irre- 
[  think,  never  igno- 
rue,  of  diverse  ele- 
ly  among  us,  never- 
^st,  gentlest  soul  of 
dowed  with  genius. 
is  days  of  toil  "  in 
•hile  he  encouraged 
forts  and  generously 
)rity  in  others, 
was  handsome,  high- 
h  love  for  the  heauti- 
;ing  unless  by  some 
best  in  art.     Wo  all 


poiiON.*:. 


141 


love  him,  in  spite  of  his  waywardness,  for  his  sunny, 
hopeful  view  of  life  and.  its  efforts. 

<'  It  is  not  his  best,"  lie  would  say,  cheerfully,  while 
he  looked  at  some  poor  daub,  "but  it  is  not  all  bad. 
There  is  nothing  in  art  hopelessly  bad.  There  are 
always  the  signs  of  effort,  the  struggling  after  a  higher 
ideal.  Moti  Dieu  !  we  all,  the  best—  1  say  the  best  — 
fall  far  short  of  our  standard.  Don't  pick  the  poor  devil 
all  to  shreds.  I'raise  the  good,  and  close  your  eyes  to 
the  bad ;  he  may  astonish  the  world  yet." 

Camille  was  our  master's  favorite  ;  we  all  knew  it  and 
yet  we  were  not  jealous,  and  the  meanest  soul  among  us 
would  try  to  hide  his  escapades  and  adventures  from 
M.  Ingres,  who  was  severely  careful  of  tlie  morals  of  his 

pupils.  .        .      i.    1 

While  Paul  and  I  were  devoting  our  evenings  to  study, 
Camille  was  rushing  from  one  scene  of  gayety  to  another, 
with  the  most  reckless  companions,  alike  indifferent  to 
M  Ingres'  gentle  remonstrances,  or  our  entreaties  that  he 
should  remain  with  us  and  share  our  studies  as  well  as 
our  simple  pleasures. 

It  was  some  time  toward  the  end  of  my  second  year 
with  M.  Ingres  that  the  following  incident  occurred. 

One  evening,  while  Paul  and  I  were  silently  working 
in  my  room,  over  the  studies  for  our  exhibition  pictures, 
Polonae  entered  suddenly ;  he  was  breathless  and  pale,  and 
appeared  to  be  much  excited.  Evidently  disappointed 
that  he  did  not  find  me  alone,  he  threw  himself  into  a 
chair  and  sat  twisting  his  moustache  and  sighing  un- 
easily. I  tried  to  engage  him  in  conversation,  to  inter- 
est him  in  our  studies  ;  but  he  was  preoccupied  and 
restless.  At  last  I  asked  him  if  he  would  pose  for  an 
hour,  and  he  replied,  "No;  that  he  was  nervous  and  ill; 


^liaamg^^Mit^^^fevMOJgSJW?- 


1  12  Till-:   STOUY   OF   AN    KNTllUSI AST. 

in  fact,  was  i.iu.l,  wor.io,! -  that  something  hud  hap- 
pencnl  to  disturb  him,  that  he  h;Kl  had  a  surpvise. 

I'aul  seeing  that  he  was  Ivovering  on  the  edge  of  some 
eoniidence  that  he  wished  to  impart  to  me  alone,  gath- 
ered up  his  studies  and  quietly  withdrew. 

.>  Now,  Avhat  is  it  ?  "  1  asked.  "  You  are  in  trouble ; 
let  me  help  you  if  I  can." 

"Yes  I  am  in  trouble.  I  am  in  need,  immediate 
need  of 'two  thousand  francs.  Can  you  loan  it  to  me  to- 
night ?  "  His  face  flushed  painfully,  and  his  voice  was 
shaken  with  anxiety. 

Fortunately  I  had  more  than  that  amount  in  my  desk, 
which  I  had  drawn  that  day,  and  as  I  handed  him  the 
notes  I  said,  "  1  hope  it  is  not  any  serious  trouble,  more 
by  way  of  relieving  his  embarrassment  than  from  curios- 
ity about  his  affairs. 

"My  friend,  I  am  indebted  to  you  for  life  ;  ut  I 
cannot  explain.  1  am  so  astonished,  so  disturbed  and 
without  further  words  he  rushed  "..ay  as  hurriedly  as 

he  had  entered.  , 

I  did  not  see  him  again  for  several  weeks,  although  he 
was  engaged  to  pose  every  day  for  tlie  class,  and  we 
needed  him  sorely.  AVe  were  working  for  the  spring 
exhibition,  and  he  figured  in  several  important  composi- 
tions. One  day,  when  we  about  despaired  of  seeing  him 
again,  he  entered  quietly  and  took  his  place  as  though 
he  had  not  been  absent.  When  questioned,  he  declined 
to  make  any  explanation,  and  was  evidently  determined 
.     to  maintain  his  usual  reticence  about  his  own  affairs. 

That  night  he  laid  an  envelope  on  my  desk ;  after  his 
departure  I  opened  it  and  found  two  thousand  francs 
the  amount  of  the  loan.     From  that  time  he  came  and 
went  as  usual,  and  the  only  change  I  noticed  ui  hun 


ISIAHT. 

letliing  liud  liap- 
a  surpi'ise." 
the  eilge  of  some 
[)  me  alone,  gatli- 

!\V. 

Li  are  in  trouble; 

need,  initnediate 
I  loan  it  to  nie  to- 
md  his  voice  was 

nount  in  my  desk, 
I  handed  him  the 
oiis  trouble,"  more 
t  than  from  curios- 

u  for  life;  but  I 
so  disturbed,"  and 
vy  as  hurriedly  as 

weeks,  although  he 
the  class,  and  we 
,ng  for  the   spring 
important  composi- 
aired  of  seeing  him 
is  place  as  though 
tioned,  he  declined 
idently  determined 
his  own  affairs, 
my  desk ;  after  his 
iro  thousand  francs, 
;  time  he  came  and 
0  T  noticed  in  him 


rOLON.K. 


143 


was  that  he  never  remained  after  our  cveiiiii;^'  sittings  to 
take  part  in  any  of  our  little  convivialities  as  he  had 
always  done,  but  at  the  same  time  I  thought  Ins  fat-e 
wore  a  calmer  and  happier  expression,  and  that  his 
reveries  were  oftener  pleasant  than  otherwise. 

What  good-fortune  had  happened  to  him?     Acciden- 
tally I  discovered  the  solution  of  t\m:  enigma.    I  had  gone 
with  my  sketch-book  to  the  Jioia  to  make  some  studies 
of  foliage,  and,  while  seeking  a  secluded  spot  among  the 
thickest  verdure,  I  came  upon  two  people  sitting  under  a 
spreading  oak,  in  quite  a  pastoral  fashion.     The  woman, 
who  was  wonderfully  beautiful,  sat  with  her  hat  in  her 
lap,  idly  leaning  against  the  trunk  of  the  tree.     Her  hair, 
like  burnished  gold,  with  here  and  there  a  gleam  of  cop- 
per, showed  with  wonderful  lustre  against  the  gray  bark 
of  the  tree.     Her  eyes  were  cast  down,  but  I  could  see 
by  the  shadows  under  the  long  lashes  that  they  were 
dark  and  soft,  and  her  white  brow  had  the  purity  and 
candor  of  an  infant,  while  her  mouth  was  exquisite,  sen- 
sitive, passionate,  smiling  from  time  to  time,  with  just  a 
touch  of  sad  indulgence  on  her  companion,  who  reclinea 
at  her  feet  with  an  open  book  in  his  hand.     His  back 
was  toward  me,  but  there  could  only  be  one  such  head 
and  shoulders  in  Paris,  one  such  perfectly  symmetrical 
figure,  one  man  capable  of  reclining  at  the  feet  of  a 
woman  with  such  indolent  grace,  and  that  was  Polonse. 
As  softly  as  possible  I  slipped  away  in  another  direc- 
tion that  T  might  not  disturb  them.     Polonfe  was  in  love, 
and  that  was  the  secret  of  his   new-found  happiness. 
But  who  was  the  woman?     She  was  not  a  lady  in  ap- 
pearance, although  she  was  dressed  with  exquisite  taste 
and  simplicity.    Neither  was  she  a  grisette  ;  her  toilet, 
her  pose,  her  quiet  dignity  disproved  it.     She^  was  a 


I 


144 


THE   8TOUY   OF   AN    ENTHUSIAST. 


woman  lovely  enough  to  attract  the  attention  ot  the 
Avorhl,  to  queen  it  in  society,  and  there  she  was  m  a 
muslin  gown,  a  straw  hat  in  her  lap,  sitting  like  a  shep- 
herdess on  that  sechuleil  v.-r.lant  hank,  with  an  ohscure 
young  man,  an  artist's  model,  reclining  at  her  feet,  read- 
ing aloud  a  I'olish  tale  of  heroism  and  strife. 

There  was  a  mystery,  but  I  would  not  seek  to  pene- 
trate it;  his  secret  was  safe  as  far  as  1  was  concerned, 
and  1  was  glad  to  know  that  at  last  a  gleam  of  sunshme 
penetrated  the  dark  clouds  that  surrounded  my  unhappy 

friend.  «  ■    t 

For  some  time  after  my  discovery  in  the  Bois,  i  no- 
ticed that  our  model  was  very  bright  and  cheerful,  that 
his  face  wore  an  expression  of  calm  happiness,  and  that 
liis  manners  were  less  grave  and  taciturn.     In  fact,  all 
the  pupils,  as  well  as  our  master,  observed  it  and  spoke 
of  it,  and,  curiously  enough,  at  the  same  time  I  detected 
a  closer  intimacy,  a  more  confidential  friendship,  between 
Camille   and   I'olome   than    had    ever    existed    before 
Often  they  conversed  apart  in  low  tones,  and  now  and 
then  a  word  fell  on  my  ear  which  led  me  to  think  that 
they  frequently  met  outside  of  the  studio,  and  were  both 
interested  in  some  woman  whom  they  admired  greatly. 
When  M.  Ingres  lectured  his  favorite,  as  he  was  often 
obliged  to  in  these  days,  the  young  man  would  cc^lor 
painfully  under  the  well  merited  rebuke,  but  would  otter 
no  excuse  for  his  inattention  and  idleness. 

"  Your  soul  is  not  in  your  work,"  our  master  would  say, 
sadly  "Your  place  is  too  often  vacant.  You  are  not 
fulfilling  the  promise  that  you  gave  at  first.  Mon  en- 
fant, you  are  retrograding  ;  you  no  longer  love  your  art ; 
-and  art  is  an  exacting  mistre.s;  she  will  have  no  half 
worship.     You  must  deny  yourself  the  pleasures  of  life 


$^MMV«f"  •' 


USIAST. 

attention  of  the 
ere  she  was  in  a 
ittiuK  like  a  shep- 
;,  with  an  obscure 
T  at  her  feet,  read- 
l  strife. 

not  seek  to  pene- 

1  was  concerned, 

gleam  of  sunshine 

iniled  my  unhappy 

in  the  Hois,  I  no- 
and  cheerful,  that 
lappiness,  and  that 
iturn.     In  fact,  all 
erved  it  and  spoke 
nie  time  I  detected 
friendship,  between 
er    existed    before, 
tones,  and  now  atul 
\  me  to  think  that 
vidio,  and  were  both 
ley  admired  greatly, 
i-ite,  as  he  was  often 
"•  man  would  color 
uke,  but  would  offer 
euess. 

ur  master  would  say, 
iicaut.  You  are  not 
e  at  first.  Mo7i  en- 
[onger  love  your  art ; 
ihe  will  have  no  half 
the  pleasxires  of  life 


I'OLON.K. 


145 


in  order  to  attiiin  to  the  purest  and  highest  pleasure,  the 
pleasure  of  success.     You  must  toil  constautly  ;  idleui-ss 
brin"s  no  results  but  sorrow  and  remorse.     Look,  for  ex- 
amile,  at  Raphael.     Almost  divine  in  his  genius,  and  yet 
he  did  not  scorn  to  labor  ;  tlie  most  severe  toil  and  self- 
denial  in  his  youth  made  him  inuuortal  before  he  reached 
luiiturity.     Make  a  religion  of  your  art,     Look  neither 
to  the  right  nor  to  tlie  left,  much  less  beneath  you.     'lo 
create  the  beautiful,  you  must  have  beauty  in  your  soul. 
The  mission  of  art  is  to  elevate,  and  how  can  it  be  done 
if  the  artist  have  not  a  lofty  purpose   in  his  work,  his 
pyes  on  the  heavens,  his  head  among   the  stars.     Oh, 
vton  enfant,  mon  enfant,"  he  would  rep«'it'  sadly,  tear- 
fully, "you  are  grovelling  in  the  mire  of  earth,  you  are 
quenching  the  living  flame,  you  are  trifling  with  your 
own  soul ;  your  art  is  not  the  first  in  your  life.     1  would 
say  to  you,  as  the  Divine  Master  of  old  said  to  the  young 
man.  '  Leave  all  and  follow  aie.' " 

VIIL 

In  looking  back  over  my  life  at  that  period,  I  now  see 
that  I  was  different  from  most  of  the  young  men  around 
me.  At  twenty-two,  I  still  retained  all  the  confidence, 
the  candor,  the  honesty  of  my  boyhood ;  I  was  not 
ashamed  to  be  earnest,  enthusiastic,  demonstrative, 
ingenuous;  life  had  not  destroyed  my  illusions,  and  I 
did  not  hesitate  to  confess  that  I  still  believed  in  them. 
When  I  expressed  my  opinion  of  humanity,  and  dis- 
cussed the  problem  of  existence,  I  was  always  listened 
to  with  curious  attention,  as  though  I  had  spoken  in  a 
strange  language,  or  uttered  something  new  and  peculiar. 
Therefore,  it  was  not  surprising  that  the  sobriquet  of 


ut; 


Till",   STOUV    OK    AN    KNTIinSIAST. 


"  Enthusiast"  was  oftener  used  by  the  students,  u.  .\^v;ik- 
iug  of  me,  than  n.y  own  name ;  besides,  it  was  the  hishiou 
at  that  time  in  the  studio  to  name  the  pupils  from 
some  peculiarity,  either  of  character  or  person.  I'aul, 
because  of  his  pure  and  gentle  face,  was  called  "the 
Madonna,"  and  CamiUe,  owing  to  his  wealth,  was  dubbed 
"  Croesus,"  and  our  favorite  model  was  never  known  by 
any  other  title  than  "  Tolome." 

We  four,  although  so  different  in  character  and  cir- 
cumstances, had,  from  our  first  acquaintance  in  M.  Ingres' 
school,  been  on  more  intimate  terms  than  any  others  of 
the  class;  but  neither  Paul,  with  his  tine  cpuilities,  nor 
CamiUe,  with  his  sunny,  generous  nature,  had  exercised 
such  an  influence  and  fascination  as  had  Poloiue.     1  may 
say  without  exaggeration  that  he  was  the  chief  inspira- 
tion of  that  period;  he  was  the  living  embodiment  of 
beauty;  the  Greek  ideal  incarnate;  through  the  pertec 
tion  of  Nature,  I  saw  truth  in  Art.     He  taught  me  the 
grace  and  freedom  of  lines,  the  plastic  loveliness  of  form, 
the  charm  of  color,  the  mystery  of  light  and  shade ;  in 
fact,  all  that  is  exquisite  in  Nature  and  Art. 

I  thought  of  him  constantly  ;  I  studied  him  in  imagi- 
nation ;  he  dominated  my  present,  as  the  head  in  the 
black  berretta  had  dominated  my  childhood,  as  Dorethea 
had  dominated  my  early   youth.     I  needed  him  ever 
before  me,  as  a  scholar  needs  his  books  of  reference ;  he 
was  my  living  book,  from  which  I  read  all  the  truths 
that  I  tried  to  transfer  to  my  canvas.     The  very  aban- 
donment of  self,  the  forgetfulness  of  being,  the  immobil- 
ity and  unconsciousness,  unmarred  by  bodily  restlessness, 
clothed  him  with  a  mystical  pow,er ;  at  times,  he  seemed 
so  absent,  so  remote  from  himself  (if  one  may  use  the 
expression),  that  it  seemed  as  though  his  soul  was  no 


UAST. 

uleiits,  ill  .ijii'iik- 
,  was  tUc  I'iishion 
le  pupils  from 
:  pt'isou.  Tiiul, 
rt'iis  culled  "the 
ulth,  was  ihibbed 
never  known  by 

lavactor  and  cir- 
,nce  in  M.  Ingres' 
an  any  others  of 
,ne  qualities,  nor 
re,  had  exercised 

Polonte.  1  nuiy 
the  chief  inspira- 
y  embodiment  of 
•ough  the  perfec- 
[e  taught  nie  the 
oveliness  of  form, 
lit  and  shade ;  in 
I  Art. 
led  him  in  imagi- 

the  head  in  the 
hood,  as  Dorethea 
needed  him  ever 
s  of  reference ;  he 
ad  all  the  truths 
i.  The  very  aban- 
eing,  the  imraobil- 
)odily  restlessness, 
t  times,  he  seemed 
[  one  may  use  the 
h  his  soul  was  no 


I'ttliON.E. 


147 


longer  an  inhabitant  of  his  body  ;  and  often,  while  I  was 
studying  him  physically,  my  mind  was  engaged  in  vague 
speculations  of  a  sitiiitual  character,  so  weird  and  un- 
natural tluvt  they  could  only  have  occurred  to  an  ovev- 
wronglit  imagination. 

It  seemed  always  to  bo  my  disposition  to  look  below 
the  surface,  to  lind  some  peculiarity,  some  myntery, 
some  charm,  undiscovered  by  others.  What  was  percep- 
tible to  the  casual  observer  did  not  interest  me.  I  was 
always  seeking  some  obscm-o  meaning,  some  hidden 
truth,  which  was  never  (juite  clear  to  those  around  me  ; 
therefore,  one  of  Polonie's  chief  attractions  was  the 
obscurity  that  surroimded  him,  the  hints  and  glimpses 
of  another  existence,  his  apparent  poverty  and  yet  his 
indilTerenco  about  money ;  and  now,  more  bewildering 
than  all  the  rest,  his  mysterious  love  affair,  his  familiar- 
ity with  fashionable  life,  and  his  sudden  intimacy  with 
Camille.  What  did  it  all  mean  ?  Could  it  be  Polonae's 
influence  that  had  wrought  the  change  in  our  master's 
favorite,  our  bright,  erratic  genius  ?  Had  he  cast  some 
fatal  spell  over  him,  that  clouded  his  clear  mind,  de- 
stroyed his  ambition,  and  left  him  indolent,  weak,  and 
reckless  ? 

During  the  winter  preceding  the  Salon  of  '35,  Camille 
surprised  us  again  by  declaring  that  he  did  not  intend  to 
compete  for  the  prize  of  Rome  ;  neither  did  he  think  of 
painting  a  picture  for  the  spring  exhibition.  In  fact, 
that  he  had  C[uite  given  up  the  idea  of  making  a  profes- 
sion of  art. 

"I  have  discovered,"  he  said,  half  seriously,  half 
mockingly,  "  tliat  I  have  none  of  the  genuine  fire,  the 
divine  inspiration,  that  our  master  is  always  talking  of. 
I  am  tired  of  the  drudgery;  I  lack  application  and 


"TKKSBS^ 


148 


Till';   STOUV    <tl''    AN    KNTIIUSIAHT. 


tMithusiasm.  No,  no,  it's  no  use.  1  tun  too  luiihitious  to 
be  siitistietl  witli  mi'diocrity,  und  that  is  the  lu'Ht  1  couhl 
ever  hope  I'or.  Now,  you,  my  friend,"  lie  eontiiiued, 
hiyint;  his  hand  alTeetionately  on  Taiil's  shouhU'r,  whih> 
he  studied  liis  prize  pieture,  "you  liave  the  veritrdde 
stamp;  there  is  nothing  spurious  about  your  talent;  my 
dear  Ma(h)nna,  I  wouhl  not  try  to  eomp»'te  with  you. 
No,  no,  indeed;  I'll  leave  the  humds  of  '35  to  be 
gathered  by  you  and  the  Knthusiaat." 

«  But  think  of  our  master's  disappointment,"  I  said  ; 
*'  he  expected  so  much  of  you." 

"Ah.  well,  he  must  console  hiniself  with  Taul ;  he 
has  already  transferred  his  affections  to  him.  I  am  the 
sheei)  that  has  gone  astray,  and  I  am  not  worth  looking 

after." 

In  spite  of  his  assumed  gayety  and  indifference,  one 
could  see  that  he  was  ill  at  case,  aiul  profoundly  dissatis- 
fied with  himself. 

"  I'oor  Camilhs"  said  Paul,  sadly,  after  he  had  gone. 
"What  a  bright  genius  to  be  clouded  and  ruined  by 
some  untoward  influence.  Think  of  him  as  he  was  a 
few  months  ago  — his  ambition,  his  energy,  his  candor. 
And  now  all  this  mystery  and  decei)tion.  It  is  painful 
to  think  of.     Can   Polonie  be   at  the   bottom  of  it,  I 

wonder  ? " 

"I  would  give  mucli  to  know  how  and  where  they 
pass  their  time  together,"  I  replied.  "They  both  seem 
to  alternate  between  a  state  of  feverish  happiness  and 
restless  dejection." 

In  this  way  we  speculated  and  discussed  the  situation, 
but  could  arrive  at  no  explanation  of  the  enigma.      t 

It  was  early  spring.  Already  there  were  vernal  suggest- 
ions in  the  swaying  branches,  the  moist,  dark  earth,  and 


mmm  n  mOiW  ^"B'-"  i*  »^m 


USIAST. 

i\  too  lunbitiouH  to 
is  tlie  best  I  could 
d,"  \u'  foiititnu'd, 
1'h  ahouldiT,  while 
iiive  tho  v('iitrd)lt) 
t  your  tiili'iit ;  my 
ompete  with  you. 
ch  of    '35  to  be 

ointment,"  I  said  5 

elf  with  Paul ;  he 
to  him.  I  aui  the 
not  worth  looking 

d  indifference,  one 
irofoundly  dissatis- 

ifter  he  had  gone, 
led  and  ruined  by 
him  as  he  was  a 
jucrgy,  his  candor. 
;ion.  It  is  painfid 
iie   bottom  of  it,  I 

)w  and  where  they 

"They  both  seem 

rish  happiness  and 

iussed  the  situation, 
the  enigma.      1 
were  vernal  suggest- 
list,  dark  earth,  and 


i 


I 


roLONiH. 


U!t 


thf  languid  south-wind.  In  the  sunny  nooks  of  the 
giinU'UM  "in  crocus  and  tulips  weie  imshing  thi-iryllow 
spears  tlirou-l.  thi'ir  brown  sln-aths,  an  1  the.  hcdgi-s  w.to 
fringed  witli  hints  of  color  and  lilV.  1  love  the  early 
spring ;  it  is  like  tlie  first  awakening  of  a  soul  to  a  now  ex. 
pericnCo,  full  of  promise  and  expectancy.  Full  of  prom- 
ise !  how  nuieh  that  means  to  one  who  is  svary  Irom 
some  severe  elTort,  an<l  i.s  just  feeling  the  first  pangs  of 
dissatisfaction  and  discouragement. 

I'aul  and  1  were  walking  through  ofte  of  the  avenues 
of  the  lioh.  Wo  were  both  tired,  and  a  little  uncertain 
and  dejected  about  our  pictures,  which  were  ready  for 
the  Sulon,  although  our  master  was  vry  linpeful ;  now 
that  tlu'y  were  finished,  we  began  to  have  all  sorts  of 
doubts  and  anxieties  about  them. 

"lam  sure  mine  will  be  hung  in  a  bad  light,"  saul 

i'aul.  ,    ., 

"1  am   afraid   mim;   will   not  be   even  accepted,     1 

"  I  have  never  thought  of  that !  I  am  sure  they  will 
be  hung;  but /(r>?/>  is  what  troubles  mc." 

"  Yours  will  have  a  place  of  honor,  but  mine  —  if  it  is 
accepted,  why,  I  shall  be  satisfied  even  if  it  is  '  skyed,' 
I  think  so  little  of  it  now." 

"  Yovi  arc  too  modest,"  and  Paul  smiled  encouragingly 
"  It  is  better  than  you  think.  One  must  not  undervalue 
his  own  efforts,  and  I  think  it  wiser  not  to  be  anxious. 
You  have  done  your  best,  and  God  knows  how  /  have 
worked.  I  have  put  years  of  my  life  into  mine.  It 
means  so  much  for  me  if  I  fail ;  but  for  you,  who  have 
wealth,  all  is  yours  — success  with  you  is  only  a  ques- 

tion  of  time." 

While  he  spoke,  I  thouglit  of  Dorcthca.     The  tender 


150 


THK   STOKY    OF   AN    KNTMU.SIAST. 


breath  of  spring  had  fanned  my  love  to  a  flame,  and  my 
longing  to  see  her  was  intense.  I  must  return  to 
England  with  something  accomplished.  I  must  succeed 
for  her,  and  for  the  moment  I  doubted  if  Paul's  incen- 
tive were  greater  than  mine. 

"  I  am  glad  our  master  is  satisfied  with  us,"  continued 
Paul-  "he  has  had  a  great  disappointment  in  Camille. 
Poor  Camille!  to  throw  away  such  a  career,  and  for 
what  ?     Mon  Dlen  !  what  has  taken  possession  of  him  ?  " 

Being  in  a  tender  mood  myself,  I  spoke  almost  invol- 
untarily :  "  Camille  is  in  love.     Have  you  not  guessed 

it?" 

"And  is  that  a  reason  for  a  man  to  renounce  so 
much?"  asked  Paul,  incredulously;  "it  seems  to  me 
that  it  should  be  a  spur  to  ambition." 

"  I  think  with  some  natures  it  is  otherwise,"  I  said. 
"  The  passion  absorbs  them ;  they  think  only  of  the 
object  of  their  adoration.  Every  interest  is  forgotten. 
The  past,  the  future  are  disregarded ;  the  present  en- 
folds them  like  a  dense  cloud,  and  they  do  not  wish  to 
see  beyond  it." 

«  Do  you  think  Camille  has  found  a  woman  of  such 
superiority  that  she  can  dominate  a  character  as  strong 
as  his  ?  "  asked  Paul,  surprise  and  doubt  in  his  tone. 

'•  It  is  not  necessary  that  she  should  be  intellectually 
superior.  She  need  only  be  beautiful ;  his  love  of  the 
beautiful  makes  liim  keenly  alive  to  the  physical  charms 
of  a  woman.  1  can  understand  how  entirely  he  would 
worship  such  a  woman." 

«  Such  a  woman,  yes ;  but  they  are  rare.  The  pliysi- 
cal  beauty  that  would  satisfy  a  nature  as  exacting  as 
CamiUe's  would  be  difficult  to  find.  I  have  never  seen 
it,  have  you  ?  " 


I  j#  w.i%yjf awijii^NVii*^^ '11 


1 


N    KNTMU.SIAST. 

ly  love  to  a  flame,  and  my 
Mise.  I  must  return  to 
uplislH'd.  T  must  succeed 
[  doubted  if  Paul's  incen- 

Ltistied  with  us,"  contintied 
isappointment  in  Camille. 
:iy  sucli  a  career,  and  for 
taken  possession  of  him  ?  " 
self,  I  spoke  almost  invol- 
e.     Have  you  not  guessed 

or  a  man  to  renounce  so 
ulously ;  "  it  seems  to  me 
ibition." 

es  it  is  otherwise,"  I  said. 
1 ;  they  think  only  of  the 
ivcry  interest  is  forgotten, 
sregarded  ;  the  present  en- 
d,  and  they  do  not  wish  to 

as  found  a  woman  of  such 
inate  a  character  as  strong 
36  and  doubt  in  his  tone. 
ihe  should  be  intellectually 
;  beautiful ;  his  love  of  the 
alive  to  the  physical  charms 
tand  how  entirely  he  would 

they  are  rare.  The  physi- 
3fy  a  nature  as  exacting  as 
to  find.     I  have  never  seen 


POLONiE. 


161 


"Yes,"  I  replied,  as  we  turned  into  the  grand  av- 
enue ;  "  I  saw  a  woman  of  just  such  beauty  once,"  for 
while  Taul  spoke  the  enchanting  face  I  had  seen  bend- 
ing over  ToloniB  under  the  spreading  oak  came  vividly 
before  me,  "  and  it  was  not  far  from  here.  It  was  a 
face  to  work  mischief  for  the  strongest  man  living." 
At  that  instant,  with  the  words  on  my  lips,  I  looked  up, 
and  there  it  was  before  me  — the  actual,  living-face; 
like  a  vision  of  beauty  it  glided  by,  and  in  a  moment 

was  gone. 

The  westering  sun  threw  long,  slanting  shadows  across 
the  crowded  thoroughfare.  Carriage  after  carriage 
whirled  past,  the  confusion  of  light  and  color  seemed 
for  a  moment  to  dazzle  me;  but  I  saw  distinctly  one 
group,  that  imprinted  itself  on  my  sight  with  photo- 
graphic fidelity.  A  pair  of  high-stepping  horses,  shin- 
ing like  burnished  bronze,  their  silver-mounted  harness 
glinting  in  the  low  sunlight.  The  driver  stately  and 
high-seated,  the  footman  with  folded  arms,  like  a  statue, 
looking  straight  before  him.  An  open  landau,  rich  with 
ruby  satin  and  dark  green  enamel ;  a  woman  wrapped 
in  blue  velvet  and  soft  white  fur,  graceful  plumes 
drooping  over  her  sunny  hair  and  softly  shading  a  brow 
of  angelic  loveliness.  A  young,  handsome  man  sitting 
beside  her,  talking  gayly,  and  bending  adoring  glances 
on  the  exquisite  face  lifted  to  his. 

An  exclamation  from  Paul  brought  me  to  myself. 
"  Camille !  del !  what  an  adorable  woman !  No  wonder 
that  he  has  lost  himself.     My  friend,  I  understand  it  all 

now." 

Carriage  after  carriage  rolled  by,  filled  with  youth, 
beauty,  and  fashion ;  but  I  only  saw  that  one.  I  only 
saw  that  face,  and  Camille's  fine  eyes  looking  into  it. 


•1 


'-Wi 


mmvfw»* 


152 


THE  STORY   OF  AN   KNTHUSIAST. 


It  was  the  same  face,  the  same  woman,  that  I  had  seen 
sitting  like  a  shepherdess  among  verdure  and  silence, 
with  Polonse  reading  at  her  feet. 

IX. 

My  picture  which  was  well  placed  and  attracted 
some  attention  in  the  Salon  was  not  the  work  I  consid- 
ered my  best.  Like  most  young  painters,  I  had  selected 
an  ambitious  subj(>ct,  "  Helios  and  Clymene,"  and  I  had 
confined  myself  to  the  purely  classical  in  representing 
it.  Polonte  Avas  my  model  for  the  sun-god,  and,  as  he 
was  the  principal  figure  in  the  composition,  I  had  made 
a  most  careful  study  of  form  and  color.  It  was  a  con- 
scientious and  faithful  effort,  yet  I  felt  that  it  lacked 
something,  and  that  feeling  was  shared  by  our  master 
and  Paul.  It  was  too  academical,  too  studied,  and  I  saw, 
much  to  my  chagrin,  that,  in  following  my  model  too 
closely,  I  had  missed  soul  and  sentiment.  Therefore,  1 
cannot  say  that  I  Avas  greatly  disappointed  Avhen  I  found 
it  hung  indifferently  Avell  among  some  hundred  of  like 
subjects  Avhich  attracted  very  little  notice,  but  a  smaller 
picture,  Avhich  I  had  painted  the  previous  year,  at  a  time 
of  enthusiasm  over  a  new  model,  and  with  a  sort  of 
divine  fury,  found  an  honorable  place,  and  Avas  much 
talked  of —  quite  enough,  M.  Michelet  said,  to  turn  my 
head,  and  spoil  my  future  career. 

It  was  a  simple  subject.  A  young  girl,  gathering 
roses,  had  pierced  her  Avhite,  slender  finger  Avith  a  thorn  ; 
the  roses  had  fallen  at  her  feet,  while  she  looked  at  the 
Avounded  finger  Avith  sorrowful  surprise.  It  represented 
nature  tenderly,  harmoniously.  It  was  truthful  but  not 
austere,  delicate  in  color  and  graceful  in  pose,  a  pretty 


CHUSIAST. 

an,  that  I  had  seen 
rerdure  and  silence, 


Miai'^,iij-'il-i»i"'P4»i'>'|,yi'n'r<t^\>iiii"i>iy 


aced  and  attracted 
t  the  work  I  consid- 
inters,  1  had  selected 
Jlyuieue,"  and  I  had 
sical  in  representing 

sun-god,  and,  as  he 
losition,  I  had  made 
!olor.  It  was  a  con- 
[  felt  that  it  lacked 
bared  by  our  master 
30  studied,  and  I  saw, 
iwing  my  model  too 
iiment.  Therefore,  I 
pointed  when  I  found 
;ome  hundred  of  like 
notice,  but  a  smaller 
evious  year,  at  a  time 

and  with  a  sort  of 
dace,  and  was  much 
elet  said,  to  turn  my 

oung  girl,  gathering 
r  finger  with  a  thorn  ; 
lile  she  looked  at  the 
)rise.  It  represented 
was  truthful  but  not 
'ful  in  pose,  a  pretty 


rOLON^. 


153 


sontinunt,  that  every  one  undcrntood  and  appreciated; 
yet  it  could  never  appeal  to  the  soul  as  Paul's  grand 
n'li.nou3  composition  did- Christ  in  the  garden,  asking 
sadlv,  reproachfully,  "Could  ye  not  watch  one  hour? 
It  Avas  almost  impossible  to  get  near  his  picture ;  all 
day  long  a  crowd  surrounded  it,  and  the  verdict  was 
always  favorable. 

It  seemed  at  that  time  as  if  Paul  was  under  the  pro- 
tection of  some  good  genius,  so  many  fortunate  things 
happened  to  him.     Scarcely  daring  to  hope  for  it,  he 
one  day  received  the  welcome  news  that  he  had  won  the 
prize  of  Eome.    We  all  rejoiced  with  him,  for  we  knew 
how  much  it  was  to  him.     Always  delicate  m  health, 
his  strength  was  greatly  reduced  by  constant  labor  and 
self-denial.     He  needed  the  rest  and  freedom  from  care 
which  he  would  find  in  the  Academy.     Then,  there  was 
another  great  reason  for  him  to  be  happy  at  the  prospect 
before  him.     Our  school  would  soon  be  broken  up.     Our 
dear  master  was  about  to  leave  Varis,  to  succeed  Horace 
Vernet  in  the  directorship  of  the  French  Academy  in 
Eome,  and  Paul  would  be  still  under  the  instruction  of 
M.  Ingres,  whom  he  admired  more  than  any  other  living 

painter.  ,        ,  t  i 

For  myself,  my  soul  was  in  England,  and  I  was  long- 
in"  for  a  sight  of  Dorethea.  I  was  none  the  less  enthu- 
siastic about  my  future  career,  but  I  felt  that  I  could 
not  go  on  successfully  until  my  heart  was  at  rest. 

My  plans  were  all  made.  I  intended  to  go  to  London, 
where  Lord  Hardmoor  then  was  with  his  family,  see 
Dorethea,  and,  if  possible,  gain  her  parents'  consent  to 
our  engagement,  and  then  follow  M.  Ingres  and  Paul 
to  Eome,  where  I  could  enjoy  the  benefit  of  lay  master  s 
advice,  as  well  as  my  friend's  society.  / 


1 


i 


^?jgm&'S(f-iK'.ay»>Hyj^j?s''  ■  -- 


IM 


THE   STORY   OF   AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


As  soon  as  the  Salon  closed,  I  packed  and  despatched 
my  pictures  to  London,  where  they  were  exhibited,  and 
there  they  attracted  more  attention  than  they  did  in 

During  the  three  years  that  I  had  been  with  M.  Ingres, 
I  had  made  several  efforts  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  apart- 
ment where  I  had  spent  the  happiest  years  of  my  child- 
hood, where  I  had  last  seen  my  father  in  life,  and  where, 
alas !  1  had  too  sorrowfully  seen  him  in  death. 

I  have,  and  always  did  have,  a  peculiar  feeling  about 
places  and  things.  It  seems  to  me  that  inanimate  ob- 
jects have  a  sort  of  consciousness,  and  become  interested 
in  us  and  attached  to  us.  Do  not  the  walls  of  a  favorite 
room,  thp  furniture,  the  pictures  and  books,  give  us  a 
mute  welcome  when  we  enter  after  an  absence,  and  do 
we  not  at  once  feel  that  we  are  at  home  and  among 

friends  ? 

I  remembered  some  fine  fresco-painting  on  the  study 
walls,  and  I  knew  those  cherub  faces  were  still  there, 
smiling,  fresh,  and  beautiful.  They  were  one  of  the 
pleasant  memories  of  my  childhood,  and  I  felt  a  strong 
desire  to  see  them  once  more.  An  old  lady,  an  invalid 
of  peculiar  habits,  occupied  the  rooms,  and  seldom  went 
out;  consequently,  I  had  not  been  able  to  gain  admit- 
tance. ..11. 

Fadette  had  promised,  every  time  I  visited  her,  to 
arrange  it  for  me  as  soon  as  madam  was  better.  Now, 
as  I  was  about  to  leave  Paris,  I  decided  to  make  another 
attempt,  wishing  as  well  to  say  good-by  to  the  old 
woman,  who  seemed  the  only  living  link  between  the 
past  and  the  present. 

I  found  Fadette  sitting  in  her  little  room  near  the 
jm-te,  behind  her  screen  of  scarlet  geraniums,  industn- 


USIA8T. 

ed  and  dospatclu'd 
ere  exhibited,  and 
than  tliey  did  in 

3en  with  M.  Ingres, 
nipse  of  the  apart- 
years  of  my  child- 
■  in  life,  and  where, 
in  death. 

aliar  feeling  about 
that  inanimate  ob- 
1  become  interested 
walls  of  a  favorite 
d  books,  give  us  a 
m  absence,  and  do 
;  home  and  among 

iting  on  the  study 
es  were  still  there, 
y  were  one  of  the 
and  I  felt  a  strong 
)ld  lady,  an  invalid 
IS,  and  seldom  went 
able  to  gain  admit- 

e  I  visited  her,  to 
.  was  better.  Now, 
led  to  make  another 
good-by  to  the  old 
g  link  between  the 

little  room  near  the 
geraniums,  industri- 


roLONTK. 


155 


ously  darning  table-linen.  She  and  her  surroundings 
had  changed  so  little  in  all  these  years  that  it  seemed  as 
if  the  pile  of  snowy  linen,  the  flowers,  the  paroquet,  and 
even  the  basket  of  vegetables  on  the  table,  were  the 
very  same  that  I  had  noticed  when  a  little  lad. 

As  I  looked  around,  I  thouglit  it  strange  that  she  had 
cluuiged  so  little  while  I  had  changed  so  much.  Life 
seemed  to  have  stood  still  with  her,  while  I  had  been 
whirled  through  the  years  like  a  leaf  driven  before 
the  wind.  Thinking  of  this,  as  I  took  the  chair  she 
offered  me,  I  was  surprised  to  hear  her  echo  my  very 
thoughts,  only  reversed. 

"  Why,  monsieur,  how  little  you  change.  You  keep 
the  same  young,  handsome  face.  It  is  only  I  who  grow 
old  and  stupid.  And  how  swiftly  time  passes !  It  seems 
only  yesterday  that  monsieur  your  father  stood  just 
there  in  the  door,  smiling  so  kindly,  and  asking  about 
my  flowers.  And  madam  your  mother  —  oh,  what  a 
face !  It  was  like  junshine.  She  always  brought  Babo 
something  when  she  passed  in  and  out.  Of  course,  not 
this  one ;  but  he  is  so  like  the  other,  and  has  the  same 
name,  that  I  sometimes  forget  my  first  Babo  died  nine 
years  ago.  And,  now  I  think  of  it,  monsieur,  you  have 
not  been  near  me  for  six  months.  And  since  then  so 
many  changes!  Old  madam  dead  and  buried  and  the 
apartment  empty  for  two  weeks,  and  I  expecting  you 
every  day  to  go  over  the  rooms  with  me." 

"  Oh,  but  I  did  not  know  it,  or  I  should  have  been 
here,"  I  replied  ;  "  I  have  been  busy  preparing  for  the 
exhibition.  Had  I  known,  nothing  would  have  kept  me 
away.  In  fact,  I  came  to-day  with  a  hope  of  getting  a 
glimpse  of  the  dear  old  place." 
"  Well,  monsieur,  I  think  I  can  take  the  liberty  to-day. 


-{!;gfts^w,feft■wfet.u^mi^aTOWffe" 


MiP 


liii 


mo  TIIK   STOItV   OF   AN    KNTIIUSIAST. 

1  have  a  very  (liffovont  tenant  now,  a  young  niMlani,  wh.i 
is  all  beauty  ami  kindness.  She  is  out  a  yreat  deal ;  at 
this  time  she  drives  in  the  Boh,  an.l  does  not  return 
nntil  dinner.  I  am  sure  her  maid,  who  is  very  accommo- 
dating, will  oblige  me,  and  allow  us  to  enter;  at  least, 

we  can  try."  ,     i.     n 

The  maid,  I  thought,  admitted  us  a  little  reluctantly  ; 
however,  after  having  Fadette's   explanation,  she  was 
more  gracious,  and  at  my  request  took  me  into  the  study 
which  was  madam's  boudoir.     There  was  nothing  famil- 
iar about  the  room  but  the  walls  with  the  lovely  arabesque 
border  and  smiling  cherub  faces  which   I  remembered 
so  well.     In  an   instant,  at  the  sight  of  them,  all  my 
past  surroundings  came  vividly  before  me,  and  I  seemed 
to  see  my  father  sitting  near  the  table,  in  his  carved  high- 
backed  chair,  turning  the  leaves  of  a  book  with  slender, 
white  fingers,   and  looking  up  from   time   to  time    to 
smile  at  me,  where  I  sat  opposite,  silently  conning  my 
lessons;  and  my  eyes  turned  involuntarily  toward  the 
wall  where  the  head  in  the  black  berretta  always  hung, 
but,  instead  of  the  pensive  face  of  my  beloved  picture, 
I  saw,  smiling  triumphantly  from  a  gilded  panel,  the 
handsome  features  of  Camille. 

Unconsciously  1  uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise, 
'     which  my  companions  noticed  ;  for  Fadette  said,  with  a 
iilance  at  the  maid,  "  You  have  seen  monsieur  ? 

"I  have  seen  a  face  like  his,'|  I  ans^^ered,  evasively. 
"Is  he  the  husband  of  madam  ?  "  ,  „     • ,  .u 

«  No,  he  is  not  her  husband ;  he  is  a  friend,    said  the 

maid,  coldly.  ,.     „ 

As  rapidly  as  possible,  I  noticed  my  surroundings. 
The  rooms  were  furnished  richly  and  with  much  taste, 
and  one  could  tell  that  they  were  occupied  by  a  young 


I'HUSIAST. 


POLONY. 


ir>7 


I  young  iniiilaiu,  wIkj 
aut  a  great  deal ;  at 
iiud  does  not  return 
^ho  is  very  acconimo- 
is  to  enter ;  at  least, 

i  a  little  reluctantly ; 
3Xi)lanation,  she  was 
ok  me  into  the  study 
i-e  was  nothing  faniil- 
\  the  lovely  arabesque 
,vhich  I  remembered 
ight  of  them,  all  my 
ore  me,  and  I  seemed 
)le,  in  his  carved  high- 
a  book  with  slender, 
m\   time   to  time    to 
".,  silently  conning  my 
Dluntarily  toward  the 
berretta  always  hung, 
E  my  beloved  picture, 

II  a  gilded  panel,  the 

clamation  of  surprise, 
or  li'adette  said,  with  a 
en  monsieur  ?  " 
I  ans\iered,  evasively. 

8  is  a  friend,"  said  the 

iced  my  surroundings, 
r  and  with  much  taste, 
>  occupied  by  a  young 


and  fashionable  woman.  Flowers,  rilibons,  gloves,  fans, 
bonOon  boxes,  jewelry,  and  all  sorts  of  pretty  tritles, 
were  scattered  carelessly  about.  In  the  salon  the  piano 
stood  open,  and  the  nnisic-rack  was  piled  with  fashion- 
able operas  and  ballads,  while  the  walls  were  hung  with 
Boine  of  Camille's  best  pictures.  On  an  easel  near  a 
window  stood  a  nearly  com[)k'ted  portrait.  The  palette 
lay  on  a  small  table,  with  the  colors  still  wet,  as  thohgh 
it  had  been  used  that  day.  I  glanced  at  the  picture ;  it 
was  an  exquisite  likeness  of  the  woman  I  had  seen  in  the 

Jiois. 

"It  is  madam,"  said  Fadette;  "monsieur  can  see  for 

liimself  how  beautiful  she  is." 

Not  daring  to  remain  longer,  I  slipped  a  ten-franc 
piece  into  the  hand  of  the  maid,  who  closed  the  door 
hurriedly  upon  us. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  my  emotions  as  I 
descended  the  stairs  with  Fadette.  My  first  feeling  was 
one  of  indignation.  It  seemed  as  though  I  had  wit- 
nessed the  desecration  of  my  home,  the  pure  temple  of 
happy  domestic  love.  My  angel  mother,  my  good  fath- 
er, seemed  to  look  reproachfully  at  me  in  the  midst  of 
these  indications  of  an  irregular  connection.  I  regretted 
that  I  had  succeeded  in  gaining  admission  only  to  learn 
this  hateful  secret,  only  to  discover  the  dishonor  of  my 
friend.  - 

"  Tell  me  about  this  woman,"  I  said  sternly  to  Fadette, 
when  we  reached  her  little  room. 

"I  know  nothing  about  her,  monsieur.  She  came 
here  a  few  months  ago  with  the  agent  to  look  at  the 
apartment.  A  blond  handsome  man  accompanied  her ;  I 
thought  they  were  just  married,  he  seemed  so  anxious 
to  please  her.    Then  the  furniture  came,  and  they  were 


■ymm 


-  "ii«i»a8a»r' 


168 


THK   8TU11Y   OK   AN    KNTJIUHIAHT. 


BO  happy  sottling  their  mcnaiji:     Miidaui  id  80  gracious, 
and  not  at  all  dilHcnlt.     At  first  the  l.U)nd  spent  most 
of  his  time  with  her,  and  she  saw  no  other  company. 
One  day,  the  dark  young  count  cilnie  with  him,  and  con- 
tinued to  come  very  often.     For   some  time  he  and  the; 
blond  were  always  here  together,  and  there  was  a  great 
deal  of  company,  and  they  were  very  gay.     Then  the 
blond  came  but  seldom,  and  it  if  now  some  days  that  I 
have  not  seen  him  at  all.     I  think  they  had  some  trouble, 
for  he  rushed  out,  much  excited,  without  noticing  me  j 
he  seemed  confused  and  scared,  like  one  half-crazy,  and 
he  has  not  returned  since.     But  the  count  comes  always. 
Madam  has  a  carriage,  and  they  go  out  together  and 
seem  very  happy.     However,  it  is  not  my  business  to 
tell  the  secrets  of  the  house,  and  I  should  not  talk  if  I 
did  not  know  that  monsieur  is  very  discreet,     liut  hush  ! 
—  here  they  are  returning  from  their  drive  earlier  than 

usual."  .  . 

I  withdrew  out  of  sight,  but  remained  in  a  position 
where  I  could  see  the  entrance,  and  my  heart  beat  al- 
most audibly  when  I  saw  Camille  with  the  lovely  en- 
chantress leaning  on  his  arm  and  smiling  up  at  him, 
while  her  red  gold  hair  brushed  his  shoulder.  The//-oM- 
frou  of  her  rich  dress  and  her  tinkling  laughter  died 
away  in  the  distance  as  they  mounted  the  stairs,  and 
I  stood  stupidly  looking  after  them,  only  conscious  of 
one  thing,  and  that  was  that  I  had  discovered  the  Deli- 
lah who  had  shorn  my  friend  of  his  strength. 

But  Polonse  —  unhappy  Polonse !    What  of  him  ? 


UHIAHT. 


POLON-13. 


ir.i) 


am  id  HO  gracious, 
bloii'l  spi'iit  moHt 
10  other  company, 
kith  liim,  ami  cou- 
in  timo  he  ami  the 
.  there  was  a  great 
■y  gay.     Then   the 
T  some  (hiys  that  I 
y  had  some  trouble, 
thout  noticing  me ; 
one  halt-crazy,  and 
ount  comes  always. 
3  out  together  and 
lot  my  business  to 
ould  not  talk  if  I 
iscreet.     lint  hush ! 
drive  earlier  than 

iined  in  a  position 
.  my  heart  beat  al- 
ivith  the  lovely  en- 
smiling  up  at  him, 
houlder.  The  frou- 
ding  laughter  died 
ited  the  stairs,  and 
1,  only  conscious  of 
liscovered  the  Deli- 
jtrength. 
What  of  him  ? 


X. 

Tt  was  the  eve  of  my  departure  for  T.ondon,  and  I  sat 
alone  in  my  room,  feeling  desolate  and  anxious,  as  I  al- 
ways do  wlien  about  to  make  any  change  in  the  ordinary 
routine  of  my  life. 

My  effects  were  all  packed ;  tlie  bare  walls  and  empty 
bookcases  seemed  to  look  at  me  with  mute  sorrow.     I 
liad  been  very  happy  in  these  rooms ;  for  three  years 
T  had  lived  a  congenial    life,   a  life  that  suited    my 
l)eculiar    temperament.      Hooks,     music,    and    pictures 
had  been  my  companions,  when  I  had  not  enjoyed  the 
s()(5iety  of  my  friends,  who  had  not  been  many,  but  I 
loved  them,  and  our  tastes  were  the  same.     How  many 
bright  evenings  with  Camille  and  the  others,  how  many 
thoroughly  satisfactory  hours  of  labor  with  Paul  alone 
for  my  companion.     I  had  lived  my  three  years  at  the 
very  best.     I  had  worked  hard  and  accomplished  a  great 
deal.     I  had  carried  out  my  plans  and  had  made  an  hon- 
orable start  in  my  profession,  and  I  felt  that  I  had  won 
my  father's  approval ;  he  seemed  very  near  me  while  I 
sat  there  alone,  and,  in  spite  of  my  anxieties,  a  gentle 
peace  filled  my  heart.     But  would  I  ever  be  as  happy 
a!,'ain,  as  free  from  self-reproach  and  regret,  as  well  con- 
tented with  myself.     England  loomed  before  me  like  a 
dark  cloud  in  my  horizon.     I  thought  of  Lord  Hardmoor, 
cold,  sarcastic,  and  worldly,  sceptical  of  all  the  softer  in- 
fluences of  life,  a  scoffer  at  sentiment  and  the  religion  of 
beauty,  and  felt  that  there  could  be  but  little  sympathy 
between  us.     Ah,  had  it  not  been  for  Dorethea,  for  my 
sweet  love,  never  again  would  I  have  set  foot  on  the 


r^BCTiBESfflP^'" 


160 


TUK   HTOUY   OK   AN    KNTUUSIART. 


Bhorc  of  that  pi'vtid,:   Alhioi.,  where   I   hiul  aulfovecl  so 

muoli.  ,     .    . 

Thinking  ovor  all  this,  1  ha.l  smok.-.l  out  my  last  cigar, 
and  it  was  near  midnight.     1  had  waited,  hoping  that  i.t 
tlic  hist  some  of  my  friends  wouhl  eonio  to  say  good-l)y. 
Paul  hu.l  gone  to  the  country  to  visit  his  parents  before 
his  departure  for  Koine.     Camilh.   I  had  not  seen  for 
weeks -in  fact,  not  since  my  elianee  glimpse  ..t  hun  lu 
the  Kue  de  Grenelle.     He  had  cut  himself  adrift  from  his 
former  life  and  friends;  even  M.  Ingres,  who  had  been 
devoted  to  him,  rarely  saw  him,  and  never  knew  ot  his 
mode  of  life.     Of  I'olome,  my  unhappy  triend,  I  could 
k-irn  nothing.     T  had  tried  to   communicate  with  him 
through  every  medium  \  could  tliink  of;  I  had  written  to 
him  of  my  intended  departure  for  England  on  the  date 
that  I  had  fixed  upon.     I  begged  him  to  come  to  me  or 
tell  me  where  I  could  find  him ;  I  felt  a  great  tenderness 
and  pity  for  him.     I  was  sure  he  was  sutTering  from  a 
cruel  wound,  and,  indignant  and  hopeless,  he  had  hid.h-n 
himself  somewhere  to  eat  out  his  heart  alone  in  silence 

and  misery. 

Sometimes  I  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  a  more  hor- 
rible fate  — he  had  so  often  said  that  he  had  not  a  single 
tie  to  bind  him  to  life,  and  in  that  great  Paris,  with  it.s 
restless  rush,  one  could  be  trodden  down  and  passed 
over,  obliterated  as  though  he  had  never  been,  and  who 
could  know  the  end  ? 

Unhappy,  and  disappointed  at  my  failure  to  hear  from 
him  before  I  retired,  1  began  reluctantly  to  prepare  for 
bed,  when  I  heard  a  step  outside,  and  a  low,  hesitating 
knock  at  the  outer  door.  In  au  instant  I  turned  the  key, 
and  the  object  of  my  solicitude  stood  before  me. 

If  it  had  been  possible  for  Polonse  to  look  like  any 


irsiAST. 

1  hud  auitVved  so 

il  out  my  last  ci^ixr, 
D('(l,  hoping  that  iit 
iiu!  to  say  good-hy. 
his  parents  before 
had  not  seen  for 
glimpse  of  him  in 
self  adrift  from  his 
;r('s,  who  had  been 
never  knew  of  his 
)py  friend,  I  coidd 
nunieate  with  him 
of;  I  had  written  to 
iglaiul  on  the  date 

I  to  come  to  me  or 
t  a  great  tenderness 
IS  suffering  from  a 
eless,  he  had  hidden 
art  alone  in  silence 

Aght  of  a  more  hor- 
;  he  had  not  a  single 
;reat  Taris,  with  its 

II  down  and  passed 
lever  been,  and  who 

failure  to  hear  from 
mtly  to  prepare  for 
nd  a  low,  hesitating 
ant  I  turned  the  key, 
i  before  me. 
ise  to  look  like  any 


V(*\AiSAi. 


t»l 


other  liuman  being,  I  should  not  have  known  liim.  so 
terribly  was  he  eliang.'d.  Silently  and  nicfhanically, 
like  one  moving  in  liia  sleep,  lie  placed  his  hat  and 
gloves  on  the  table,  and  with  strange  precision  drew  a 
chair  near  the  empty  iireplaee  and  sat  down.  Tlie  night 
was  warm,  Imt  he  seemed  to  be  shivering  with  a  slight 

ague. 

"iAIy  friend,  my  ilear  friend,"  I  almost  sobbed,  "you 
have  l)een  ill,  and  did  not  let  me  know." 

"No,"  he  replied,  with  a  wan  smile,  looking  at  me 
from  the  glo(m»y  caverns  of  his  eyes,  that  had  beeonm 
jilmormally  large  and  sunken,  "  no ;  I  have  not  been 
ill.  I  have  been  in  hdl,  and  these  ehanges  are  the  marks 
ol'  my  torment." 

VuY  a  moment  I  thought  he  was  insane ;  then  a  motherly 
tenderness,  an  inlinitc  pity,  filled  my  soul,  and,  drawing 
his  head  to  my  bosom,  1  held  him  in  my  strong  ycmng 
arms,  fdose  to  my  heart,  and  said,  soothingly,  "  Tell  me, 
tell  me  all,  and  let  m((  help  you." 

"There  is  no  help,"  he  said;  "there  is  nothing  to  bo 
done.  I  do  not  suffer  now ;  the  lire  of  my  torment  is 
bin-nt  out,  and  I  am  like  dead  ashes." 

Taking  my  hands  in  his  cold  clasp,  he  i)resscd  them 
with  solemn  fervor,  and  said,  gratefully,  "Ah,  your 
friendship  is  the  only  cooling  drop  that  has  fallen  on  my 
l.arched  heart.     Thank  you.     God  bless  you." 

Then  disengaging  himself  gently  from  my  arms,  he 
arose  and  began  pacing  the  floor.  I  noticed  how  very 
leeble  he  was,  how  thin  his  hands  were,  and  the  pitifully 
attenuated  lines  of  his  limljs,  that  had  served  so  often  for 
models  of  symmetrical  beauty. 

"  I  should  not  have  come  here  to  make  you  unhappy 
on  the  eve  of  your  departure,"  he  said,  at  last,  arousing 


»ii!wglJw..i>miswaw.*» ;. ,*M*<»M!i*<»«M»'*'feM^  ''"'■'-  awWi'-'' '  g'.^i^? 


....    ■  ,,»..,^.^-:f^ 


102 


THK   HTOICV    OK    AN    KNTIIUHIAST. 


hiiiiHolf  with  an  i'lTt)it.  "  I  ili<l  not  nu'iin  tliat  any  oiu' 
Hliniild  know  of  n>y  niisl'ortunf,  Imt  I  (H.uld  not  ruproHS 
the  h)n(j;ing  to  «(•»•  you  on(!'i  mure." 

lie  trtJUihU'il  and  wavurod  as  if  aliout  to  fall,  (ii'ntly 
foivinj,'  him  into  a  chair,  1  ponivd  out  houu'  wine  and 
askod  him  to  diiuk  it.  H-  took  it  witlumt  n-mark, 
drank  it  at  a  drau^lit,  and  swimd  somewhat  revived. 

".Now  tell  me  your  trouble;  1  must  know  before  I 
sleep.     Vou  ean  trust  me  ;  1  am  your  friend,'  I  urged. 

"  Yes,  I  can  trust  you  ;  you  ure  sincere.     Hut  of  what 
use  to  complain !     1  tell  you  I  do  not  sutler  now.     I  am 
not  as  weak  as  you  think.     The  fact  is,  I  have  eaten 
nothing  for  days;  the  wine,  has  revived  me.      Now   I 
have  nerve   and  strength.     If  I  lay   my  heart  bare  to 
you,  you  will  only   despise  me,  but  not  as  deeply  as  I 
despise  myself.     Oh,  there  is  nolhing  in  the  world  that 
1  hate  as  I  hate  myself.     I5ut  why  shouUl  I  T    It  was 
destiny  ;  it  was  destiny.     I  had  no  will  of  my  own.     I 
was  helpless.     1  saw  her  again,  I  heard  her  voice,  and 
1  was  lost.     1  thought  1  hated  and  dewpised  her,  but  I 
loved  her—  I  lovt'd  her  always,  and  I  love  her  now,  and 
shall  love  her  while  there  is  life  enous'li  in  me  to  suffer. 
W(!  I'oles  are  doomed.     It  is  our  destiny  to  be  constant, 
and  to  lose,  — always  to  lose,  — and  our  losses  are  dearer 
to  us   than   gain  to  others.     I  thought  1  had  nothing 
more   to   lose.     1    had  buried   my  love  so  long  that  I 
thought  it  was  dead,  dead  ;  but,  at  the  first  sight  of  her 
face,  it  started  up  and  stood  before  me  like  a  strong 
man  armed.     It  took  possession  of  me,  and  I  was  over- 
powered—bound hand  and  foot,  and    delivered  up  to 
hell.     It  is  all  very  simple— an  every-day  story.     Her 
llussiaiv   lov(>r  deserted   her  six  years  ago,  and  she  was 
but  eighteen.     She  drifted   to  J'aris  with  other  wrecks. 


JSIAHT. 

■iui  tliat  uuy  OIK' 
■oiiltl   not  repri'ss 

L  to  tall.     (Icntly 
;  Hoini'   wiiu'   and 

without  rt'iuark, 
.'what  rcvivi'tl. 
it  know  before  I 
ru'iiil,'  I  urged. 
>re.  lUit  of  what 
siitTer  now.  1  am 
,  i.s,  I  have  eaten 
ved  mo.  Now  I 
my  heart  bare  to 
lot  as  deeply  aa  I 

iu  the  world  that 
diould  1  T  It  was 
/ill  of  my  own.  I 
ird  her  voice,  and 
ilewpised  her,  but  I 

love  her  now,  and 
igli  in  me  to  snffer. 
.iuy  tt)  be  constant, 
ir  losses  are  dearer 
,'lit  1  had  nothing 
)V0  so  long  that  I 
le  first  sight  of  her 

me  like  a  strong 
me,  and  I  was  ovcr- 
id  delivered  np  to 
■ry-day  story.  Her 
rs  ago,  and  she  was 
,  with  other  wrecks, 


I'or.OM.K. 


les 


iiiid    siiiee    then  has  lived  a  j.reearious  existenne,   not  , 
wholly  l>ad.     In  her  there  is  just  enough  of  the  divine 
to  make  the  demon  attractive.     She  is  a  mixtuit"  of  saint 
and  tleiid  — the  fiu'c  of  an  angel,  the  heart  of  a  devil. 
More  than  a  year  ago,  was  it  not  V  —  about  the  time  I 
iisked  you  for  a  loan  of  two  tlKmsaiid  francs  —  I  had  on- 
ciiHion  toidiange  my  ai)artment,  and  one  day,  while  look- 
ing for  another  ecpially  suitable,  I  entered  a  small  hotel 
ill  the  Avemu)  Matigiion,  where  rooms  were  iidvertised  to 
he  let.     The  apartment  was  on  the  fourth  floor,  small, 
imd  simply  furnished.     The  cunr!n-(/i;  as  garrulous  as 
they  usually  are,  told  me  that  a  very  beautiful  yoiuiglady 
had  occupied  the  rooms,  who  was  in  great  trouble,  could 
not  i)ay  her  rent  when  she  went,  and  had  left  her  effects 
until  she  could  settle  with  the  landlord.    There  were  8omo 
boxes  waiting  to  bo  mov«'d,  and  on  their  covers  1  noticed 
several  Russian  labels.     .Inst  at  that  moment,  the  door 
near  which  we  were  was  softly  opened,  and  nhe  stood  be- 
fore me.    The  recognition  was  mutual  —  instantaneous.    I 
held  out  my  hand,  and  slui  clasped  it  warmly,  eagerly. 
The  conrierge  discreetly  withdrew,  and  we  were  alone. 
It  is  not  necessary  to  relate  in  detail  all  that  followed. 
It  is  enough  to  say  that  I  was  in  a  fool's  paradise.     I 
liaid   her  debts,  which  were  numerous,  and  established 
her  in   an  apartment.     She  must  be  well  lodged,  well 
clothed,  and  well  cared  for.    She  was  ambitious,  and  mean 
surroundings  did  not  suit  her  beauty.     I  spent  all  I  liad 
to  gratify  her  extravagant  demands.    I  had  but  one  thing 
that  belonged  to  my  mother.     It  was  an  antique  cross, 
set  with  gems  of  great  value.    It  had  been  in  our  family 
for  centuries,  and  prized  as  an  amulet  —  a  charm  against 
evil.     It  bad  been  wet  with  my  father's  blood,  it  lay  on 
his  breast  in  death  ;  my  mother  took  it  from  over  her 


M»w>Hi<ir.lsJ-.»w<u.*'i^v'JiWJ.w 


164 


THE  STOKY   OP  AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


broken  heart  when  I  left  her,  and  hnng  it  about  my  neck 
with  her  blessing  and  prayers.  I  always  wore  it  —  no 
words  can  tell  what  it  was  to  me.  It  had  been  bathed 
in  my  father's  blood,  my  mother's  tears,  and  made 
sacred  by  that  last  benediction.  My  friend,  I  sold  it  for 
her,  to  pander  to  her  luxury  —  that  pure,  sacred  thing, 
the  last  treasure  I  had  on  earth.  She  seemed  grateful, 
happy,  contented,  and,  more  than  all,  she  seemed  to 
love  me  tenderly.  One  day,  our  friend  Camille  met  us 
together.  I  presented  him  to  her,  and  when  we  were 
alone  she  asked  a  great  many  questions  about  him,  and 
finally  made  me  promise  to  bring  him  to  visit  her.  He 
was  my  friend.  I  loved  and  trusted  liim;  so  I  complied 
with  her  wishes,  and  he  became  a  constant  visitor.  Poor 
Camille  !  I  do  not  blame  Camille  —  remember,  I  do  not 
blame  him.  He  struggled  against  it.  He  did  not  wish 
to  injure  me,  but  he  too  was  powerless.      It  was  his  des- 


tiny, as 


it  was  mine.     I  could  not  believe  it  at  first.     I 


was  blind  and  stupid,  and  it  was  not  until  she  asked  me, 
in  the  plainest  language,  how  we  were  to  live  —  how  was 
I  to  support  her  in  the  luxury  necessary  to  her  happi- 
ness. Had  I  a  settled  income  ?  No.  Well,  Camille  had, 
and  Camille  loved  her.  As  for  her,  she  must  think  of 
herself.  Love,  devotion,  passion  —  that  was  all  very  well 
with  money,  but  without  it  was  nothing.  My  God !  how 
the  demon  took  possession  of  her  !  Her  angel  face  was 
transformed.  She  was  Medusa,  Avhom  to  look  at  waS  to 
die.  She  killed  my  soul  with  a  glance.  She  sent  me  to 
the  Lind)us  of  the  damned  with  a  smile.  It  is  over.  I 
accept  my  fate.  Again,  again  I  have  lost.  And  Ca- 
mille—  ah,  did  I  hate  him  as  I  might,  I  could  wish  him 
no  greater  punishment  than  to  tasfce  of  the  oup  tliat  T 
have  drained," 


I   ENTHUSIAST. 

nd  hung  it  about  my  neck 
s.     I  always  wove  it  —  no 
I  me.     It  hail  been  bathed 
lother's   tears,   and   nuide 
.     My  friend,  I  sold  it  for 
—  that  pure,  sacred  thing, 
rth.     She  seemed  grateful, 
than  all,  she  seemed  to 
our  friend  Camille  met  us 
;o  her,  and  when  we  were 
Y  questions  about  him,  and 
iring  him  to  visit  her.     He 
;rusted  him;  so  I  complied 
le  a  constant  visitor.    Poor 
nille  —  remember,  I  do  not 
;ainst  it.     He  did  not  wish 
powerless.      It  was  -his  des- 
d  not  believe  it  at  first.     I 
vas  not  until  she  asked  me, 
we  were  to  live  —  how  was 
ury  necessary  to  her  happi- 
?    No.    Well,  Camille  had, 
for  her,  she  must  think  of 
ion  —  that  was  all  very  well 
as  nothing.     My  God !  how 
f  her  !     Her  angel  face  was 
usa,  whom  to  look  at  waS  to 
h  a  glance.     She  sent  me  to 
vith  a  smile.     It  is  over.     I 
;ain  I  have  lost.      And  Ca- 
s  I  might,  I  could  wish  hini 
1  to  taste  of  the  cup  that  T 


roiiONy!-:. 


Ida 


What  could  I  say  to  him  ?  The  few  words  tliat  one 
might  use  were  no  more  ailequate  to  the  situation  than 
a  drop  of  dew  to  quench  the  iires  of  Vesuvius.  I  do  not 
think  that  he  even  heard  what  I  tried  to  say.  He  was 
so  completely  enfolded  in  his  own  misery  as  to  be  deal' 
to  the  voice  of  frieiulship. 

For  some  time  he  looked  at  me  contemplatively;  then 
he  said  gently,  and  iu  his  old  tone :  "  My  friend,  you 
have  soared  straight  upward  into  the  pure  ether,  into 
the  blue  of  heaven.  You  are  calm  and  undisturbed  by 
the  passions  and  follies  of  this  seething  pit  of  misery. 
You  are  above  us  all, 

"  '  L'aigle  va  Umjours  seul.' 

and  we  poor  earth  worms  crawl  and  writhe  in  the  dust. 
Adieu  !  I  nmst  go.     Adieu  !  " 

"  Wiiere  are  you  going  ? "  I  asked,  surprised  at  his 
calmness  and  the  sudden  change  in  his  manner. 

"To  Poland." 

"  To  Poland,"  I  echoed.     "  When  ?  " 

"  To-morrow,  at  break  of  day,  I  leave  Paris  forever.  I 
am  going  to  Poland,  to  my  mother's  grave.  Adieu! 
Adieu  !  "  and,  wringing  my  hand  passionately,  he  went 
out  and  closed  the  door  while  I  was  still  urging  him  to 
remain. 

To  Poland,  to  his  mother's  grave.  His  last  earthly 
refuge. 

Polonae,  Adieu. 


"S??®'*^' 


>.*-*'.r*^tVBWiij-".piVjJ'*ii>i'.i«  ii»  I 


.■^?i 


PART  IV. 
LA    SANTA. 


laWWWtMltLii'WWWWlW 


s  \ 


•rmMyt 


PAET    IV. 


LA    SANTA. 


Rome,  March  20,  laSG. 
This  evening,  while  looking  from  my  window  in  the 
Piazza  della  Trinata  dei  Monti,  I  am  as  fully  impressed 
ao  I  ought  to  be  that,  at  last,  I  am  in  Kome  —  T.me  the 
Mecca  of  the  pilgrim  of  art,  the  realization  of  all  his 
ideals,  the  sum  total  of  his  aspirations.  In  every 
other  place  he  may  look  upon  himself  as  a  stranger  and 
a  wayfarer.  Here,  O  Eternal  Mother,  he  is  welcomed 
to  thy  sumptuous  bosom,  and  feasted  on  thy  undying 
beauty. 

I  might  fill  pages  with  descriptive  rhapsodies,  but  of 
wliat  use !  I  could  say  nothing  new.  Its  glories  and 
delights  have  been  sung  and  written  of  by  every  nation 
and  in  every  tongue  under  the  sun.  I  will  only  say  that 
at  first  I  did  not  fully  comprehend  nor  appreciate  the 
grandeur  and  harmony  of  the  vast  city,  the  majestic 
breadth  and  depth  of  color  and  shade,  the  materialized 
poetry  and  melody  that  surrounded  me.  I  was  bewil- 
dered and  surprised.  It  was  all  too  sublime  for  me  to 
grasp  at  first,  but,  after  some  weeks  of  rest  and  study,  I 
am  growing  accustomed  to  the  magnificent  proportions 
of  this  wonderful  architecture.  Every  day  it  is  becom- 
ing less  mysterious,  and  more  within  my  human  grasp, 
stretching  out  before  me  like  a  sombre  panorama  where 


- .  iiia'jia>iiS»>'<waw<»Ji*<'w»*'«'»'W'Ji»!i»ft''"*ft''-J'''^'"i*'  ■  s^"'" 


170 


TIIK  8T0KY   OF   AN    KNTMUSIAST. 


hi 

84 


I 


one  by  one  I  search  out  tlie  wonders  of  antiquity  and 
the  beauties  of  art. 

Now  the  red  sun  is  sinking  behind  the  pines  of  Monte 
Mario.  Tliey  stand  like  solemn  sentinels  at  the  gate  of 
night.  The  vast  unutterable  spreads  above,  the  vast  un- 
utterable spreads  below.  The  nmrniur  of  ages,  the  rest- 
less whir  of  centuries,  the  roaring  of  that  "  loom  of 
Time"  plied  by  countless  multitudes,  echoes  and  re- 
echoes from  afar,  with  a  sound  like  the  marshalling  of 
the  eternal  hosts.  The  dome  of  St.  Peter's  rises  in 
purple  grandeur,  solitary  against  the  saffron  sky,  and  in 
remote  splendor  a  glowing  star  hangs  above  the  stern 
blackcross  — an  emblem  of  peace  after  pain.  This  twi- 
light hour  of  exquisite  happiness  consecrate.^  me  to  my 
worship.  Rome!  city  of  eternal  beauty,  thou  hast 
entered  into  my  soul,  into  the  very  inner  temple  of  my 
love,  and  henceforth  thou  art  ray  home  of  homes. 

I  am  settled  here  in  my  comfortable  apartment,  only  a 
stone's-throw  from  the  Villa  Medici,  the  home  of  my  dear 
master,  and  madani,  whom  I  love  like  a  mother,  and  Paul, 
my  good  an<l  earnest  Paul.  A  nobler  era  begins.  I  feel 
a  powerful  impetus,  a  new  dedication  to  art.  My  brain 
and  heart  are  full  of  pictures.  Life  is  spread  out  be- 
fore me  in  ravishing  colors.  I  am  happy,  too  happy. 
Can  one  be  too  happy  ?  Oh  youth,  and  love,  and  hope. 
%  •  •  •  ' 

Ever  since  Dorethea  said  she  loved  me,  I  have  walked 
on  air.  I  am  lifted  into  a  higher,  purer  ether,  the  eternal 
blue  of  heaven.  That  sweet  soul,  that  fair-haired  child, 
has  knighted  me  with  her  love ;  henceforth  I  must  be 
sans  peur  et  sans  reproche.     I  am  a  better,  stronger  man. 


JS1A8T. 
of  antiquity  and 

le  pines  of  Monte 
lels  at  the  gate  of 
bove,  the  vast  un- 

•  of  ages,  the  rest- 
of  that  "  loom  of 
!S,  echoes  and  re- 
le  marshalling  of 
;.  Peter's  rises  in 
affron  sky,  and  in 
3  above  the  stern 
r  pain.  This  twi- 
ecrate?  me  to  my 
leauty,  thou  hast 
ler  temple  of  my 
3  of  homes. 

1  apartment,  only  a 
le  home  of  my  dear 
,  mother,  and  Paul, 
era  begins.  I  feel 
to  art.  My  brain 
is  spread  out  be- 
happy, too  happy, 
id  love,  and  hope. 

*  * 

me,  I  have  walked 
ir  ether,  the  eternal 
t  fair-haired  child, 
Lceforth  I  must  be 
itter,  stronger  man. 


LA   SANTA. 


171 


thinking  of  her,  and  I  feel  the  power  within  me  to 
accomplish  wonders  for  her. 

My  visit  to  England  was  delightful  in  spite  of  my  fore- 
bodings. Lord  Ilardnioor  treated  me  with  great  kindness 
and  consideration.  This  time  I  came  as  a  successful 
man,  one  whom  the  world,  the  world  of  London,  spoke 
well  of.  My  pictures  were  kindly  received,  and  many 
good  things  said  of  them.  But  there  were  no  words  of 
praise  so.  dear  to  my  soul,  so  entirely  satisfactory 
to  my  ambition,  as  Dorethea's  unstinted  admiration. 
In  her  sweet  eyes  they  were  works  of  genius,  possessed 
of  every  excellence,  and  she  never  wearied  of  studying 
them  in  every  light  and  from  every  position. 

It  was  Dorethea's  iirst  season,  and  she  enjoyed  to  the 
utmost  every  triumph,  every  attention,  every  compli- 
ment, and  they  were  numerous,  for  she  is  really  beautiful, 
and  how  happy  and  sunny  her  nature  is.  We  were  very 
gay,  and  I  will  acknowledge  that  I  enjoyed  it  all  greatly. 
It  was  my  first  experience  of  fashionable  life,  and  before 
I  was  well  aware  of  it  I  found  myself  drawn  into  the 
very  vortex,  and  whirled  around  with  the  rest  of  human- 
ity, as  wild  and  reckless  as  any  of  them.  There  were  a 
succession  of  balls,  dinners,  lunches,  garden  parties, 
exhibitions,  and  all  the  thousand  and  one  things  which 
go  to  make  up  a  London  season,  all  of  which  we  at- 
tended, much  to  Lady  Hardmoor's  discomfort,  who  was 
not  in  her  usual  health,  and  who  often  suffered  from 
v/eariness.  Still,  she  was  very  patient  and  sweet,  and 
her  affection  and  consideration  for  me  almost  equalled 
her  pride  and  love  for  Dorethea. 

I  wonder  if  all  young  lovers  invest  the  object  of  their 
adoration  with  every  perfection,  or  whether  my  dear  girl 
is  really  so  superior  to  others.    To  me  she  seems  with- 


J 


172 


THE   8T0UV   OF   AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


out  a  flaw,  a  gem !  No,  I  won't  say  that  —  it  ia  too 
trite ;  she  is  simply  a  treasure,  and  my  own.  Beside  her 
beauty  and  accomplishments,  she  has  such  a  high,  clear 
soul,  so  strong  and  truthful.  No  foolish  coquetry,  no 
little  deceptions.  How  sweetly  straightforward  and 
8-  .cere  was  her  answer  when  I,  feeling  my  unworthiness, 
humbly  asked  for  her  love.  1  can  see  her  beautiful  clear 
eyes  as  she  looked  into  my  very  soul,  and  said  so  gravely 
and  simply,  "  INIy  dear  Felix,  I  have  loved  you  ever  since 
that  night  I  tirst  saw  you,  a  pale,  sorrowful  boy,  so 
desolate  and  heart-broken." 

How  grateful  I  am  for  her  love,  how  contentedly  and 
securely  happy.     And  Lord  Hardmoor  behaved  so  well  — 
so  much  better  than  I  expected.     It  is  true,  he  made 
some  conditions  before  he  would  consent  to  our  engage- 
ment.    But  I  cannot  complain  of  them.     She  is  his  only 
child,  his  treasure,  and  he  is  not  a  man  to  put  a  low  esti- 
mate on  anything  belonging  to  him.     At  first,  I  rather 
hesitated  about  promising  that  I  would  live  in  England, 
on  my  estate,  and  give  up  art  as  a  profession.     But  what 
does  it  matter  ?    With  Dorethen^  '^ne  place  is  as  good  as 
another,  and  every  place  a  paradise ;  and  as  to  making 
art  a  profession,  that  is  only  a  hollow  phrase.     I  shall 
paint  wherever  I  am,  and,  with  Dorethea  for  a  compan- 
ion and  inspiration,  I  shall  do  better  work,  work  more 
worthy  the  favor  of  those  who  can  understand  it.    And 
if  my  pictures  bring  me  money,  why  should  I  not  take 
it,  as  I  should  for  any  other  honest  labor.     I  shall  not 
try  to  make  my  talent  a  means  for  enriching  myself, 
nor  shall  I  seek  for  wealth  through  it ;  therefore,  I  shall 
work  more  freely  and  more  sincerely.    As  to  waiting 
three  years,  that  indeed  seems  hard;  but  we  are  both 
young,  and  I  need  three  years  of  serious  study  here  in 


rslAST. 

that  —  it  is  too 
own.  Beside  her 
uch  a  high,  clear 
ilish  coquetry,  no 
ightforward  and 
my  unworthineas, 
lier  beautiful  clear 
,n(l  said  so  gravely 
red  you  ever  since 
sorrowful  boy,  so 

V  contentedly  and 
aehaved  so  well  — 
is  true,  he  made 
nt  to  our  engage- 
.     She  is  his  only 
,  to  put  a  low  esti- 
At  first,  I  rather 
i  live  in  England, 
ession.     But  what 
place  is  as  good  as 
md  as  to  making 
T  phrase.     I  shall 
lea  for  a  com  pan- 
work,  work  more 
derstand  it.    And 
should  I  not  take 
abor.     I  shall  not 
enriching  myself, 
;  therefore,  I  shall 
y.     As  to  waiting 
;  but  we  are  both 
ous  study  here  in 


.4auta«**p 


I  iiijiwui' 


LA   8ANTA. 


17.3 


Rome,  and  then  1  have  a  mission  to  perform.     I  must 
continue  my  search  for  iny  lost  picture. 

I  spoke  of  it  to  Lord  Hardmoor,  and  he  smiled  incred- 
ulously, and  said,  in  his  light,  scoffing  tone  :  "  Wliat, 
still  possessed  with  that  idea !  1  tlinught  you  had  be- 
come more  sensible,  and  had  outgrown  such  childish 
nonsense." 
I  assured  him  that  I  had  not. 

"Very  well;  you  most  travel.  It  is  the  fashion  to 
UKike  the  tour  of  the  world,  and  at  the  same  time  you 
can  look  out  for  the  picture.  Hut  what  kuighU'ivaiitry  ! 
and  all  for  a  piece  of  eai'vas!  Suppose  you  find  it  and 
can't  buy  it.    What  will  you  do  in  that  case  ?  " 

"If  I  find  it,  I  will  buy  it  — if  it  takes  all  I  have  in 
the  world,"  I  replied,  firmly. 

He  looked  at  me  for  a  moment  with  a  grieved,  puzzled 
expression,  and  then  said,  bitterly,  "  I  hope  to  heavens 
you  will  never  find  it.  And  I'm  promising  my  child  to 
you.  In  spite  of  all  you've  done,  you're  still  the  same 
crazy  enthusiast  that  you  were  at  sixteen.  How  can  I 
trust  you  with  her  happiness  if  you  take  such  a  matter 
as  that  seriously  ?  How  do  I  know  what  folly  you  may 
be  guilty  of  after  she  is  your  wife." 

"I  will  never  make  Dorethea  unhappy,"  I  replied. 
"  And  I  will  obey  you  in  everything  else,  but  I  must 
find  that  picture  if  possible,  and  Uorethea  approves  of 
my  intention." 

"  Well,  remember,  if  you  do  anything  absurd,  I  shall 
not  feel  bound  to  keep  my  promise.  You  are  nothing 
but  a  pair  of  silly,  romantic  children,"  he  added,  as  he 
left  the  room,  flushed  and  angry. 

In  spite  of  his  annoyance,  I  know  he  does  not  take 
jne  seriously,  and  for  that  I  am  not  to  blame.     1  do  not 


174 


TIIK   STOltY    OK    AN    KNTHU8IAHT. 


wish  to  deceive  him,  Imt  I  am  ns  iimch  in  earnest  as  I 
was  on  the  first  day  tliat  I  bt-j^'an  my  searcli  willi  M. 
Michelct,  I  do  not  tliink  tlu!  [)ictiiro  is  eittier  in  Eng- 
land or  in  France,  and  vl  is  not  pruljable  tluit  it  is  in 
Italy;  therefore,  I  am  under  the  impression  that  it  is  in 
Germany,  and  thither  I  shall  «"  "1"'"  '  ''''^''''  <'unii)leted 
my  stmlies  here.  At  times  I  IVel  coulident  that  I  shall 
find  it.  And  with  that  onee  in  my  possession,  and  Dor- 
•ethea  my  wife,  life  will  liave  no  more  of  happiness  to 
give  me. 

II. 

How  lovely  these  early  spring  mornings  are.  The 
crisp,  transparent  atmosphere  seems  to  lift  one  above 
earth  and  its  confnsion  and  discords.  How  bright  and 
home-like  my  rooms  are.  How  sunny  and  warm  my 
little  loggia,  with  its  stunted  orange-trees  in  big  green 
tubs,  and  the  border  of  shallow  boxes  filled  with  flaunt- 
ing geraniums.  I  look  up;  in  the  unspeakable  blue 
above  me  I  see  flocks  of  swallows  darting  here  and 
there,  and  a  long,  liquid  note  comes  down  to  me  that 
sounds  like  a  lark  "singing  at  heaven's  high  gate,"  and  I 
find  myself  repeating  part  of  Shakespeare's  matchless 
sonnet,  — 

"Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen." 

I  glance  below.  —  An  old  bent  man,  his  head  white  with 
the  blossoms  of  age,  is  hobbling  about,  removing  some 
mats  from  a  frame  that  protects  a  clump  of  exquisite 
camellias  covered  with  buds  and  blossoms.  The  old 
man's  lean,  nervous  hands  hover  about  the  stately,  snowy 
buds  as  he  turns  them  to  the  warmth  of  the  sun,  and 


i.-SiKr: 


J8IA8T. 

1  in  earnest  as  I 
!  search  willi  M. 
is  citiier  in  Enj;- 
iblo  that  it  is  in 
ssion  that  it  is  in 
I  have  ('uiui)lett'(l 
ideiit  that  I  shall 
sst'ssiuii,  anil  l)»i- 
B  of  happiut'ss  to 


LA   SANTA. 


176 


orniugs  are.     The 

to  lift  one  above 

How  bright  and 

ny  and  warm  my 

-trees  in  big  green 

filled  with  flaunt- 

unspeakable  blue 

darting   here   and 

i  down  to  me  that 

s  liigh  gate,"  and  I 

ispeare's  matchless 

live  I  seen." 

is  head  white  with 
ut,  removing  some 
clump  of  exquisite 
lossoms.  The  old 
t  the  stately,  snowy 
[ith  of  the  sun,  and 


..very  touch  is  a  caress.  His  eyes,  all  of  youth  that  is 
Icl't  him,  sparkle  with  delight  as  he  stands  and  ga/es  at 
them  ;  their  beauty  has  enl.'r.'d  into  his  old,  frozen  ln'art. 
Tenderly,  carefully,  he  eats  one  matchless  blossom, 
surro.mded  with  its  glossy  leaves,  and,  stooping,  he 
■ratluMS  his  hands  full  of  sweet  Tarma  violets,  and  goes 
"nvay  laden  with  these  fragrant  treasun'S.  Doubtless, 
they  are  a  love-token  for  some  fair  girl,  whose  warm,  red 
lips  will  bf  pressed  to  them  in  rapture. 

(.pposite  to  me  is  a  bit  of  .piaint  old  wall.  Time 
has  painted  the  stucco  with  patches  of  beautiful  color; 
pale  lavender,  pink,  soft  blue,  and  the  tenderest  ot 
greens.  Against  it,  outlined  sharply,  is  a  slender  ole- 
ander, with  Haming  red  flowers  ;  and  from  the  edge  of 
the  brown  tiles  just  above  hangs  a  cluster  of  tlun  vines 
and  long,  swaying  tendrils,  starred  her.-  and  there  with 
blue  blossoms.  AVherever  I  look,  I  see  i-  ictures  which  I 
am  impatient  to  transfer  to  canvas. 

t  • 

A  soft,  musical  voice  ut  my  elbow  timidly  informs  me 
that  my  breakfast  is  served.  It  is  Tita,  the  pretty  child, 
of  my  imdrona  di  Casa,  She  too  is  a  picture,  with  her 
glossy  braids  pinned  up  in  knots  behind  each  ear ;  her 
low  Greek  brow  and  great  mild  eyes ;  her  pearly  teeth 
and  rich  flashing  smile.  And  my  breakfast-table  would 
tempt  the  most  fastidious  gourmand:  — An  antique  bowl 
piled  with  fruit;  a  dish  of  pale  green  lettmn.  —  CVp/>«f- 
rlui,  the  child  calls  it;  a  small  basket  of  crisp  rolls;  a 
few  pink  slices  of  ham;  and  a  golden  pat  of  butter, 
make  as  pretty  a  study  of  color  as  one  would  care  to 

see. 

Through  the  open  door  1  can  look  into  iny  studio  — a 
WL'U   lighted,  picturesque   room.     My   sketches  are  ar- 


Ju 


m 


TIIK  HTOIIY   OK   AN    KNTIIUKIA8T. 


\ 


niiigotl  oil  thfi  Willis  ami  ousels ;  my  tlriiporics,  brin-ii- 
brac,  ami  few  good  casts  aro  plaocd  to  the  best  ndvuii- 
tii}^!' i  my  ruj,'s  m;iki'  hrii,  I.  sjtDts  ot'  ('((liir  on  tlii'  stoiio 
Hoor.  I'ots  of  liloomiii;,'  HowtTs  uiid  a  glowing,'  -vass 
tmldim  givi>  just  tlu>  touch  of  warmth  and  uhetM-l'ut.ieBH 
itJipeds.  Truly,  I  am  well  planed,  as  my  dear  master 
BiiVi',  every  time  he  visits  mo. 

.  ■  •  •  • 

My  exp.'ki"<ioe  of  yesterday  was  .;  harming  episode 
ill  my  life.  I  went  to  the  Villa  Medici  to  eoiisiilt  I'aul 
about  a  little  matter,  and  was  tuld  that  he  was  making 
a  study  in  the  garden.  Feeling  sure  that  my  visit  would 
not  be  considered  an  intrusion,  1  followed  lln  i)ath 
indicated,  and  came  upon  a  group  whose  grace  aii'  ).  auty 
took  full  possession  of  me.  J'aul  was  seated  at  liis  eas(d, 
ami  lightly  le;-!.',  ig  again-st  )  ^^  arm  of  a  carvtid  stone 
bench  stood  a  .,  ounggirl  of  tl"-  most  remarkable  face 
and  figure  I  have  ever  seen.  I  tliiu!  what  imjiresses  me 
most  is  the  saintly  purity  of  her  face.  Her  brow  is 
sereiio  and  innocent,  and  the  pale  brown  hair  falls  over 
it  in  soft,  rippling  waves;  lier  eyes  are  of  the  same 
tender  brown,  with  large  pupils  and  a  faint  line  of  light 
beneath,  whicdi  suggests  n  tear.  The  virginal  outline 
of  the  faintly  colored  cheek,  tlie  delicately  pointed  chin, 
the  softly  curving  and  rather  thin  lips  with  a  faint 
smile  of  divine  sweetness  and  reserve,  give  her  a  per- 
fectly- angelic  expression,  and  her  costume,  which  U  of 
classic  simplicity,  suits  her  admirably.  A  fine  violet 
cashmere  robe  falls  in  full,  graceful  folds  from  the 
square-cut  neck  to  the  feet,  with  wide  over-sleeves,  that 
hang  open  from  the  shoulders,  showing  tight-fitting 
white  sleeves  outlined  with  gold  embroidery.  Over  her 
head,  pointed  slightly  at  the  forehead,  j'alls  a  soft  white 


MUHIAKT. 

}•  (Iriiporii's,  bri(!-ii- 
to  tho  lu'.st  iidviin- 
cnliir  on  Utr  stoiio 
(I  a  glowing'  '"iiss 
th  and  chuL'i'l'ul.itJSS 
as  my  dear  master 


;  harming  opisodo 
liri  to  consult  I'aul 
;hat  lie  was  making 
tliat  my  visit  would 
followed  {)ic  path 
Dse  grace  aii''  wauty 
^  seated  at  his  easel, 
I  of  a  carviid  stone 
)st  remarkable  face 
what  iiniiresses  me 
face.  Her  brow  is 
rown  hair  falls  over 
'3  are  of  the  same 
a  faint  line  of  light 
.'he  virginal  outline 
cately  pointed  chin, 
I  li[)s  with  a  faint 
■rve,  give  her  a  per- 
ostume,  which  is  of 
d)ly.  A  fine  violet 
ful  folds  from  the 
le  over-sleeves,  that 
bowing  tight-fitting 
broider}-.  Over  htn- 
id,  i'alls  a  soft  white 


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IMAGE  EVALUATION 
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23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

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CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICIVIH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  canadieii  de  microreproductions  historiques 


iiA^ 


LA   SANTA. 


177 


veil,  that  reaches  behind  to  tlie  liem  of  her  long  robe, 
and  it  is  also  bordered  with  a  delicate  tracery  of  gold. 

At  the  farther  end  of  the  seat  against  which  the  girl 
leaned  sat  a  handsome  woman,  dressed  in  simple  black, 
with  an  open  book  in   her   lap,   over    which    slie    was 

bending.  ^    , 

From  my  point  of  observation  I  conld  see  Tanl's  in- 
spired face  and  earnest  eyes  as  he  raised  them  from 
time  to  -time  toward  his  lovely  model,  while  she  stood 
before  him,  her  white  hands  folded,  her  modest  eyes  cast 
down,  and  her  soft  lips  curving  in  that  saintly  smile. 
Not  wishing  to  disturb  the  charming  group,  I  stepped 
discreetly  behind  some  shrubbery,  and,  after  a  few  more 
stolen  glances,  I  slipped  away,  and  left  my  friend,  with 
heaven  in  his  eyes,  worshipping  the  most  angelic  crea- 
ture I  have  ever  seen. 

All  impatience  to  learn  who  this  beautiful  girl  was, 
I  fortunately  met  Madam  Ingres,  taking  a  turn  through 
a  shady  part  of  the  garden.  Smiling  at  my  eager  air,  she 
held  out  her  hand,  and,  anticipating  my  question,  she 

said :  — 

"  Ah,  I  know  by  your  face  that  you  have  seen  her,  and 
are  about  to  deluge  me  with  questions.     Refrain,  and  I 
will  tell  you  all  about  her.    Among  the  artists  she  is 
called  La  Santa,  because  she  poses  only  for  sacred  sub- 
jects—Madonnas, saints,  angels,  such  forms  and  faces 
as  require  the  purest  type,  the  most  spiritually  ravishing 
expression,  the  most  heavenly  countenance,  which  she 
possesses  to  perfection ;  but  her  earthly  name  is  Angelique 
Raymond.     Her  father  was  a  French  artist,  who  lived 
here  the  most  of  his  life,  — an  early  friend  of  M.  Ingres, 
and  one  of  the  most  spiritual  men  who  ever  bore  the 
burden  of  an  earthly  existence,  one  of  the  most  patient 


1 


178 


THK   8TOUY   OF    AN    KNTIIUSIAST. 


and  luiinUlo  amongst  the  great  aimy  of  martyrs.     When 
no  longor  young,  he  experivMicod  his  Hrst  passion,  and 
married.     You  have  seen  Madam  Raymond,  the  lady  sit- 
ting near  Angelio"e ;   so  I  need  not  tell  you  th;it  she 
was  heautiful.     An.,  she  was  as  good  as  she  was  beauti- 
ful—talented, highly  accomplished,  but  poor,  a  gover- 
ness in  an  English  family  of  rank.     A  few  years  ago 
our  poor  friend  died,  and  left  his  widow  and  child  with 
no  other  fortune  than  a  number  of  unfinished  pictures, 
which  the  dear  woman  believes  to  be  works  of  genius, 
and  I  am  sure  she  values  them  more    than  she  would 
their  weight  in  gold.     With  the  strictest  economy,  and 
by  teaching  music  and  English,  she  has  managed  to  live 
and  educate  Angelique,  who  is  a  paragon  of  perfection 
as  well  as  a  marvel  of  beauty.     I  love  both  mother  and 
daughter  dearly,  and  they  are  with  me  a  great  deal," 

"Then,  she  is  not  a  professional  model?"  I  asked, 
much  interested. 

"No  and  yes,  if  you  can  understand  that.     I  do  not 
mean  that  Angelique  does  not  take  money  for  posing ; 
she  makes  a  business  of  it,  to  add  to  their  scanty  income 
and  to  lighten  the  labor  of  her  mother,  whose  health  is 
breaking  up  sadly.     But  she  does  not  pose  for  every  and 
any  artist,  neither  would  she  consent  to  sit  for  a  painter 
of  doubtful  reputation,  no  matter  what  price  he  offered. 
.  Nor  for  any  subject  except  sacred,  or  pictures  of  the 
church,  as  we  style  them.     It  came  about  in  this  way. 
Two  years  ago,  an  eminent  French  painter,  a  friend  of 
M.  v'ernet,  was  in  despair  for  a  model  for  a  Madonna, 
•     in  a  nearly  completed  Holy  Family.     Among  the  black- 
browed  Roman  models,  there  was  not  one  who  had  a 
face  of  the  spiritual  type  which  he  required.     One  even- 
ing at  a  Salon  of  the  Academy,  he  was  presented  to 


ST. 

tyrs.     When 
passion,  aivl 
the  lady  sit- 
you  th;it  she 
e  was  beauti- 
oor,  a  gover- 
3W  years  ago 
id  child  with 
ihed  pictures, 
ks  of  genius, 
an  she  would 
economy,  and 
maged  to  live 
of  perfection 
;h  mother  and 
reat  deal," 
}1?»  I  asked, 

lat.     I  do  not 
iy  for  posing ; 
scanty  income 
hose  health  is 
I  for  every  and 
it  for  a  painter 
•ice  he  offered, 
pictures  of  the 
it  in  this  way. 
ter,  a  friend  of 
or  a  Madonna, 
long  the  black- 
me  who  had  a 
red.     One  even- 
xs  presented  to 


LA    SANTA. 


179 


Madam  Raymond  and  Angoliquc,  and  instantly  he  knew 
that  he  had  found  the  face  he  had  lu-fu  seeking.  Ho 
dared  not  approach  the,  mother  on  the  subject,  but  it 
was  arranged  through  M.  Vcrnet;  and  since  then  she 
has  ])Osed  for  all  the  religious  pictures  that  have  been 
painted  in  Home.  She  looks  at  it  in  a  very  spiritual 
way ;  she  is  pious  beyond  any  one  I  ever  knew,  and  she 
considers  it  a  sacred  duty.  Naturally  of  a  religious  and 
contemplative  nature,  the  terrible  sorrow  of  her  father's 
death  intensiticd  and  elevated  her  character,  until  she  is 
now  the  most  ideal  of  idealists.  For  her  the  material 
world  is  but  a  brief  abiding-place,  and  the  unseen  is  the 
real.  She  lives  in  mystical  dreams  of  a  transcendental 
existence,  another  life,  as  it  were,  separate  and  apart 
from  thi.s,  and  she  is  angelic  in  her  innocence,  sweet 
child ;  .she  says  so  simply  and  candidly  that  if  God  has 
given  her  a  face  of  a  suitable  type  for  the  Madonna, 
and  if  such  pictures  elevate  and  purify  mankind,  it  is 
right  that  she  should  assist  in  exalting  the  mind  and 
leading  the  thoughts  to  heavenly  things." 

"  What  a  remarkable  character !  how  interesting  she 
must  be !  will  you  present  me,  the  first  opportunity  ?  " 
1  asked,  earnestly. 

"  Certainly ;  you  must  know  her.  You  could  not  live  in 
Mome,  and  be  a  habitue  of  the  Academy,  without  know- 
ing La  Santa.  But  T  will  take  you  into  my  confidence, 
M.  Felix,  and  don't  betray  my  plans.  I  have  quite  set 
my  heart  on  marrying  her  to  our  dear  Paul.  She  will 
r;uit  him  exactly  ;  for  he  is  a  saint  himself." 

"  What  a  menage  !  a  pair  of  saints,"  I  said,  laughing 
at  her  naive  arrangement. 

"  But  he  is  a  wonderful  genius,  and  will  soon  be  rich 
and  famous.     Now,  don't  thwart  me  nor  disarrange  my 


180 


THE  8TOKY   OV    AN   KNTHUSIAHT. 


plans  by  falling  in  lov(!  with  her  yourstilf.  Sho  is  inutlf 
for  Paul,  and  you  must  not  interfere  with  tlie  designs  of 
Providence." 

I  assured  her  that  I  would  not  be  so  presumptuous. 
"  Paul  is  my  friend,  and  I  wish  to  see  him  happy  ;  and, 
judging  from  his  face  to-day,  I  think  he  intends  to  help 
you  in  your  conspiracy." 

"Thank  Heaven  if  my  scheme  is  progressing.  It  was 
I  who  suggested  the  Holy  Family,  in  order  to  bring 
them  together.  But  I  must  leave  you  now ;  I  have  an 
engagement  with  my  husband.  Hemember  my  evenings, 
Sunday  and  Thursday ;  be  sure  to  come.  Au  revoir,  my 
dear  Felix,  au  revolt:"  And,  with  a  kind  nod  and  smile, 
my  gentle  friend  left  me  to  dream  away  the  remainder 
of  the  afternoon  leaning  over  the  old  wall,  and  watching 
the  gay  throng  passing  and  repassing  below  in  the  Villa 
liorghese. 

III. 

Last  evening  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  La  Santa 
again.  It  was  at  Madam's  reception,  and  I  was  among 
the  first  there.  We  were  all  listening  in  deep  attention 
to  M.  Ambroise  Thomas,  one  of  the  i)ensionnaires,  who 
was  at  the  piano  playing  a  Sonata,  when  1  raised  my 
eyes,  aud  she  was  standing  quite  near  me.  She  was 
dressed  in  simple  white,  as  pure  and  classic  in  outline 
as  the  robe  she  wore  the  first  time  I  saw  her.  Without 
a  veil,  the  abundance  of  waving  hair  and  the  graceful 
outline  of  neck  and  shoulders  are  more  noticeable ;  and 
the  whole  girlish,  gracious  figure  is  the  most  perfect 
picture  of  purity  and  innocence  imaginable. 

In  an  instant,  Paul  was  at  her  side,  his  serene  face 
all  aglow  with  expectation  and  pleasure.    I  had  never 


\HT. 


T-A    SANTA. 


181 


Shu  Ih  iiiutUf 
tlie  designs  of 

presumptuous, 
a  happy ;  iiiul, 
nteuds  to  help 

!ssing.  It  was 
)rder  to  bring 
3\v ;  I  have  an 
r  my  evenings, 

Au  revoir,  my 
nod  and  smile, 

the  remainder 
,  and  watching 
3W  iu  the  Villa 


jeing  La  Santa 
d  I  was  among 

deep  attention 
sionnaires,  who 
en  1  raised  my 

me.  She  was 
issic  in  outline 

her.  Without 
id  the  graceful 
noticeable;  and 
e  most  perfect 
lie. 

his  serene  face 
J.    I  had  never 


si't'ii  him  so  alort,  so  interested,  so  liandsomc.  lie  was 
charming,  and  1  watched  them  closely,  (nuious  to  see  if 
there  were  any  indications  of  interest  on  her  p.art;  but 
she  received  his  greeting  without  the  least  flush  on  her 
delicate  check.  Calmly,  coolly,  her  divine  eyes  were 
raised  to  his,  the  lips  curved  gently  in  a  faint  smile  of 
welcome,  but  there  was  no  restrained  cmotioji,  no  dumb 
rapture,  such  as  we  feel  at  meeting  with  one  we  love, 
one  who  has  already  kindled  the  immortal  fire,  that 
avowal  has  not  yet  fanned  to  a  flame. 

In  Paul's  flushed,  eager  face  I  read  his  secret.  In 
hers  I  saw  the  clear  mirror  of  a  soul  over  which  a 
breath  of  passion  had  never  swept. 

While  I  was  making  these  mental  comments,  I  was 
talking  with  a  bright,  handsome  English  girl,  Laura 
lirent,  the  daughter  of  an  artist  who  lived  mostly  in 
Rome.  I  had  made  their  acquaintance  in  London, 
during  the  season,  and  already  felt  a  warm  friendship 
for  the  kind,  friendly  cirl,  who  was  perfectly  natural 
and  matter-of-fact,  but  not  half  as  interesting  to  me  as 
the  angelic  creature  I  had  been  studying. 

As  soon  as  a  young  Italian  painter  carried  Miss  Brent 
off  to  look  at  the  pictures,  I  went  to  Madam  Ingres,  and 
reminded  her  of  her  promise. 

She  looked  at  me  with  a  quizzical  smile,  evidently 
amused  at  my  persistence.  "  Very  well ;  I  will  keep  my 
promise,  on  one  condition,"  she  said,  taking  my  arm, 
"  which  is  that  you  will  agree  not  to  interfere  with  our 
dear  Paul.  You  see,  he  is  already  by  her  side,  and  as 
happy  as  one  can  be  on  earth.  We  must  give  them  a 
chance  to  interest  each  other,  to  become  mutually  ac- 
quainted. When  she  knows  more  of  his  beautiful 
character,  all  will  go  as  I  wish." 


iKi!!»giffi-^a3S»migi^-aii';im'tgajfe^^^ 


182 


THE  8T0l!Y   OK    AN    KNTHUSFAST. 


"  1  don't  think  I  nin  qnite  agree  with  yovi/'  1  ivtiuu.d, 
(loubtlully.  "We  are  more  likely  to  be  attraeted  b^' 
contrasts.  I  think  they  are  too  much  alike  to  becnme 
lovers.     When  she  loves,  she  will  love  a  more  worldly 

man  than  I'aul. " 

"Impossible,  "said  Madam  Ingres,  decidedly  ;  "Ang(!- 
lique  could  never  be  drawn  to  a  nature  less  pure  than  her 
own.  You  do  not  know  the  child !  She  is  truly  saintly  ; 
she  is  eprise  with  religion,  truth,  and  holiness.  In  fact, 
she  is  already  ripe  for  heaven." 

"Ah,  I  wish, then, she  were  less  angelic,  for  we  can  ill 
afford  to  lose  her.  Heaven  is  full  of  angels,  and  we 
have  but  this  one.  " 

«  Don't  jest,  my  dear  boy,"  returned  IMadam,  a  little 
sadly.  "  I  think  she  is  given  to  us  to  make  us  in  love 
with  the  beauty  of  goodness  and  purity  ;  in  fact,  to  lead 
our  souls  upward.  I  can  never  look  at  her  ethereal 
form  and  celestial  face  without  wondering  if  there  is  not 
a  direct  communication  between  her  and  the  angels. 
Oh,  she  is  elevating,  and  you  will  agree  with  me  when 
you  know  her. " 

When  we  reached  her  side.  Madam  laid  her  hand 
caressingly  on  the  girl's  shoulder,  and  said,  «  Ang«51ique, 
here  is  another  of  my  children  who  wishes  to   know 

you." 

"Ah,  dear  Madam,  how  many  you  have,  and  how  much 
you  love  them  all ! "  She  made  a  gracious  little  saluta- 
tion to  me,  and,  after  a  few  pleasant  words,  took  my  arm 
for  a  promenade  through  the  salon. 

Exteriorly,  she  was  so  faultless  that  I  almost  dreaded 
to  talk  with  her  for  fear  she  might  disappoint  me.  I  was 
afraid  I  might  find  her  conventional  and  insipid ;  but,  on 
the  contrary,  she  had  a  bright,  responsive  mind,  full  of 


LA    SANTA. 


18:5 


'  1  ri'tiiriii'd, 
ittnu'ti'il  !)'• 
L'  to  bccnme 
lOve  wfii'liUy 

(lly  ;  "Ang(v 
lure  than  lun* 
mly  saintly ; 
■ss.     In  fact, 

or  we  can  ill 
fels,  and  we 

(lam,  a  little 
e  us  in  love 
I  fact,  to  lead 
lier  ethereal 
f  there  is  not 
the  angels, 
ith  me  when 

id  her  hand 

"  Ang«51ique, 

hes  to  know 

nd  how  much 
little  saluta- 
took  my  arm 

most  dreaded 
it  me.  I  was 
ipid ;  but,  on 
mind,  full  of 


natural  intelligence,  and  a  remarkably  just  and  beautiful 
api)reciation  of  music,  art,  and  literature;  while  her 
voice  was  so  sympathetic  that  the  simplest  thing  she 
said  seemed  to  have  more  than  its  meaning,  whicli  gave 
a  certain  gravity  to  her  artless  repose  and  dignity. 

It  is  astonishing  how  many  subjects  can  be  touclied 
upon  in  a  few  moments  by  minds  that  arc  congenial. 
She  hiul  tliat  charming  faculty  of  making  one  feel  as 
though  she  was  acquainted  with  his  particular  likes  and 
dislikes,  of  showing  a  pretty  interest  in  everything,  and 
listening  with  attention  to  even  trivial  remarks.  We 
were  sauntering  about  discussing  the  pictures,  and  vari- 
ous other  subjects  that  interested  us,  when  the  full  tones 
of  a  superb  contralto  voice  attracted  my  attention. 

"  What  a  rich  voice  !  let  us  get  a  little  nearer,"  I  said, 
leading  her  to  a  chair. 

"That  is  mama  singing.  Has  she  not  a  fine  voice?" 
She  spoke  with  such  pride  and  love  that  I  was  charmed 
with  her. 

"  It  is  magnificent,"  I  replied,  warmly ;  "  and  she  has 
the  rare  quality  of  pleasing  the  heart  as  well  as  the  ear. " 

"Dear  mama!  I  wonder  that  she  can  sing  with  such 
feeling  and  expression.  I  shoidd  think  as  much  trouble 
as  she  has  had  would  destroy  one's  sensibility  and  make 
one  hard  and  cold ;  but  her  heart  is  as  young  and  tender 
as  it  ever  was.  " 

Looking  into  her  holy  eyes,  I  could  not  make  idle  com- 
pliments or  indulge  in  fashionable  small  talk.  She  com- 
pelled sincerity,  and  I  know  she  understood  what  I  felt 
when  I  said,  — 

"  How  can  she  be  otherwise  than  happy  with  such  a 
daughter.  You  must  be  a  continual  joy,  a  continual 
inspiration  to  her. " 


$.'jssmmsi 


184  THK  HTOIIY   OK   AN    KyTIHTSIAST. 

.<!  try  to  nmko  Imt  life  brighter,  un.l  to  lighten  \m- 
burdens  as  nuu.l.  as  possible;  but,"  she  "'"^^^''^  ^'fj-^' 
«I   think   she  suffers  to  have  me  pose  lor  the  aitists 
Although  it  nuikes  n.e  happy  to  do  it,  perhaps  1  uui  not 
Hght  t^give  her  pain,  in  order  to  gain  the  pleasure  of 

^''"  You  are  simply  heroic.    You  do  not  like  it  for  itself ; 

YOU  like  it  because  you  are  doing  it  iov  her." 

"  And  because  I  think  it  is  my  duty  to  do  all  I  can  to 
elevate  art,  and  I  should  like  n»y  duty  or  else  I  am  not 
Bincere.  If  we  make  martyrs  of  ourselves,  it  is  for 
some  reward,  either  earthly  or  heavenly.  No  I  am  not 
Lroic  ;  but  1  should  like  to  be,  I  should  like  to  do  some- 
thing quite  unselfish,  quite  devotional,  and  for  no  re- 

'''''"  It  seems  to  me  that  you  are  forgetting  self,  and  act- 
ing most  disinterestedly  every  day  you  live." 

"  Ah,  I  do  so  little !  «ut  the  power  is  given  to  few  to 
do  really  noble  .leeds,  just  as  it  is  given  to  few  to  be 
really  great.  In  looking  back  through  the  centuries  up 
to  our  own  time,  how  comparatively  few  are  the  names 
that  are  immortal,  and  all  the  countless  multitudes  who 
have  toiled  and  struggled  and  won  their  fleeting  triumpl.s 
are  forgotten,  gone -swept  ^'^y/^^^^,  ^%\;"  ", 
wind.  Is  it  not  sad  to  think  of  ?  And  they  all  had  the 
Tame  lofty  desires,  but  they  lacked  the  power  or  the 

"'^vdhe'went  on  in  a  soft  monotone  the  noble  voice 

of  her  mother  rose  and  fell,  filling  the  lofty  rooms  w i  h 

'      waves  of  melody,  and  I   heard  both  distinctly     One 

spoke  to  my  soul,  the  other  to  my  senses.    I  could  have 

^'^There  tnUy^seems  some  mystical  charm  in  this  young 


HI 

e 
ii 

t' 
s 

li 

ii 
t 
II 
c 
] 
II 


ijuiimi 


agJiffiriirlrMilnTfit- 


RT. 

itiimcil  siully, 
)!•  the  artists. 
Imps  1  urn  not 
le  pleasure  of 

e  it  for  itself ; 

lo  all  I  can  to 
else  I  am  not 
Ives,  it  is  for 
No,  I  am  not 
ike  to  do  some- 
mcl  for  no  re- 

T  self,  and  act- 
ve. 

given  to  few  to 
u  to  few  to  be 
he  centuries  up 
are  the  names 
multitudes  who 
eeting  triumphs 
I  leaves  in  the 
they  all  had  the 
3  power  or  the 

I  the  noble  voiee 
ofty  rooms  with 
distinctly.  One 
I  could  have 

cm  in  this  young 


LA   HANTA. 


186 


girl.  Her  eyes  compel  mi'  to  listen,  and  her  voice 
Hfarohcs  deeper  into  my  soul  tlian  any  oilier  voice  I  have 
ever  heard.  1  am  drawn  toward  her,  and  it  is  a  purely 
intellectual  attraction.  I  feel  as  though  I  had  been  in 
the  presence  of  a  Vestal.  It  is  as  Madam  Ingres  says; 
she  is  elevating. 

Taul  stood  at  a  distance  during  our  conversation,  with 
his  eyes  tixed  greedily  upon  us.  Now  thtn-e  was  a  pause 
in  the  music,  and  he  joined  us.  IMadam  Kaynunid  left 
the  })iano  amid  great  api)lause,  and  we  formed  a  group 
near  the  master  and  Mr.  Krcmt,  who  were  vivaciously  dis- 
cussing  the  respective  merits  of  the  two  great  composers, 
]>eethoven  and  .Mozart.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  ani- 
mated argument,  in  which  Angeli(pie  joined  with  an 
intelligence  rare  in  one  so  young. 

In  the  midst  of  a  brilliant  remark  from  M.  Ingres,  at 
which  we  were  all  laughing,  I  saw  the  girl's  eyes  dilate 
strangely,  and  her  face  turn  as  white  as  the  camellia  in 
her  belt.  Hhe  was  looking  straight  before  her,  and  I 
turned  to  see  what  had  moved  her  so  unacconntably. 
There  appeared  to  be  only  a  throng  of  people  passing 
and  repassing,  but  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  a  group  around 
Madam  Ingres,  who  sat  on  a  sofa  a  few  paces  off,  and 
who  was  ab(mt  rising  to  receive  a  new-comer,  whose  back 
was  toward  me.  At  that  moment  he  looked  in  our  direc- 
tion and  I  saw  —  Camille.  But  in  that  swift  glance 
T  saw  that  it  was  not  the  old  Camille,  the  gay,  merry 
Camille  of  a  year  ago.  He  was  changed,  greatly 
(^hanged.  He  looked  years  older,  and  the  glad  light  had 
gone  out  of  his  eyes  and  smile;.  I  needed  but  one  glance 
to  know  that  he  had  been  in  torment. 

In  an  instant  he  was  with  ns,  and  I  thought  our  mas- 
ter would  have  taken  him  in  his  arms  in  the  presence  of 


I  I 

I I 


1H»5 


TIIK   HT<UIY    •»!•    AN    KNTIIUHIAHT. 


tho  wliolo  comiuiuy,  so  Impiiy  was  he  to  soo  the  protligal 
rotunitHi, 

"  Why,  Camillt' !     Why.  my  (h-ar  hoy  !     H(.\v  deliKht- 
ful !     How  iim-xpectiul !     What  a  suri.iiau  !  "  was  heaiil 

on  all  sitlos. 

Alter  the  confusion  incident  to  such  a  jdcasant  niei't- 
in},'  had  Honu-what  suhsid.'d,  M.  InK'n-s  invsi'iitcd  CaniiUc 
to  Madam  Raymond  and  her  dauj^hter,  and  the  eonver- 
sation  heeame  general.  C'aniilh-  told  ns  that  he  had 
arrived  a  lew  hours  hefore,  and  that  he  eould  not 
restrain  his  inipaticneo  to  see  us,  and  so  had  eome 
directly,  and  recounted  some  amusing  incidents  of  his 
journey,  answered  innnmerahle  (piestions  about  Taris, 
and  then  was  carried  off  hy  M.  In;,'res  and  I'aul  to  see  a 
wonderful  picture  hy  one  of  the  jjnisioiiiKitirs,  that  was 
to  he  packed  early  in  tho  morning  to  he  sent  to  Paris  lor 
the  8i)ring  exhibition. 

1  was  left  with  Madam  Kaymond  ami  her  daughter, 
and  the  conversation  naturally  turned  on  Camille  as  the 
latest  object  of  interest. 

"M.  Ingres  is  very  iond  of  him,  is  he  not?"  asked 

Madam  Raymond.     "  I  have  li.'ard  him  speak  so  often  of 

his  tine  talent  and  charming  character." 

"  We  all  love  him.     He  has  a  beautiful  nature.     Mad- 

emolseUi',  1  fancy  you  arc  a  student  of  physiognomy," 

I  said,  turning  to  Angeli(pic,  who  sat  with  her  eyes  cast 

down,  in  a  deep  rcvery.    "  What  do  yoii  think  of  him  V  " 
"I  have  seen    M.  de    lUecourt  before,"  she  replied, 

quietly.     "Or,  rather,  I  have  seen  his  portrait  among  ]M. 

Ingres'  pictures,  and  I   have   studied  it   a   great   deal. 

Some  faces  attract  me  intellectually;  others  rei)(d  me. 

Some  faces  after  one  glance  are  stamped   indelibly  on 

my    min.l;  others  I   forget  at  i)nue.      You  remember, 


m 

M 

t€ 

as 

ni 
Iv 

ai 
o; 
ei 
w 


^teaaau^jtfai 


_.!,.,!    Ililllill    JtMM 


LA    HA NT A. 


187 


ho  prodigal 

i)\v  (U'liKl't-- 
wiiB  iieiuil 

;\saiit  moct- 
tfd  ("aiiiilli' 

tllC  CIlUVl'l- 

liiit  ho  had 
cinild  111  it 
•  liiid  (•(iiiii' 
U'Uls  of  his 
ibout  I'liris. 
'aul  to  si'o  a 
•('.«*,  that  was 
to  I'aris  lor 

iv  daughter, 
luille  as  the 

lot?"  askod 
k  80  often  of 

\ture.  Mdd- 
lysiogiiouiy," 
her  eyes  cast 
ik  of  him  ?  " 

she  replied, 
nit  aiuoug  ^l. 
L  great  deah 
M'S  rt'|)('l  me. 

indelibly  on 
u  remember, 


mama,"  turniii;^  to  her  mother,  "  I  told  you  about  tho 
skeUdi,  and  the  |ie(Miliar  inthieiiee  it  liad  upon  me.  I 
felt  when  I  tir.sL  saw  it  tliat  I  iiad  seen  it  before,  some- 
where in  anotlior  life,  in  other  conditions,  as  though  it 
had  been  part  of  an  existence  the  reiMdleetion  of  whiidi 
wavered  faintly  through  my  mind,  and  1  could  not  seize 
nor  fix  it !  " 

"Ah,  my  Angeliquo,  you  aro  a  little  dreamer.  Mon- 
sifiui;  you  must  not  think  that  she  is  always  imiiression- 
ablo  and  mystical.  She  has  strange  fancies,  but  withal 
she  is  very  practical  at  times." 

"1  am  sure,  whatever  mood  vtddt'moindle  is  in,  she  is 
always  charming  and  interestitig,"  I  replied,  lightly, 
although  1  was  much  impressed  with  what  sho  said. 
"  (Jannot  you  account  for  your  strange  attraction  toward 
the  portrait?"  I  continued,  looking  at  her  attentively. 
"  Had  you  not  heard  the  original  much  talked  of  by  the 
master  and  madam  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no ;  I  never  knew  the  sketch  was  a  portrait  of 
M.  de  Brecourt.  I  recognized  tho  likeness  Avhen  he  en- 
tered, and  I  feel  as  though  I  had  known  him  always,  and 
as  though,  if  I  never  met  him  again,  that  in  some  man- 
ner our  destinies,  either  here  or  hereafter,  were  indisso- 
lubly  connected." 

"  ]My  Angelique,  my  child !  what  am  you  saying  !  [ 
am  afraid  M.  Markland  will  think  you  very  indiscreet 
or  very  visionary,"  interrupted  Madam  Raymond,  un- 
easily. "  Come  !  the  people  are  leaving.  It  is  late,  and 
we  must  go.     Let  us  say  good-night  to  madam." 

"  Don't  be  annoyed,  mama,"  said  Ang«;lique,  with  a 
little  calm  smile  and  an  upward  glance  of  her  heavenly 
eyes.  "I  am  sure  monslexir  understands  me,  and  v.ill 
not  misconstrue  what  I  say."    Then,  with  a  friendly 


li   8 


188 


THE  8TOUY   OF   AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


good-night  and  an  eloquent  glance,  slie  went  away  with 
her  mother,  and  left  mo  standing  like  (Edipus  Insfore  the 
Sphinx,  trying  to  read  the  strange  enigma  of  her  ch.u- 
acter. 

IV. 

Last  night  I  had  a  long  talk  with  Camille,  sitting  on 
my  little  loggia  in  the  n  ooulight.  He  dined  with  me, 
and  after  our  wine  and  almonds  we  went  outside  to  take 
our  coffee,  to  smoke,  and  to  enjoy  the  enchanting  view, 
Monte  Mario  and  the  sentinel  pines,  the  outline  of  St. 
Angelo,  Trastevere,  the  purple  dome,  the  black  cross, 
the  vast  city,  the  gr-xnd  masses  of  palaces  and  churches, 
the  slender  spires,  the  graceful  cupolas  and  marble 
towers  silvered  with  the  soft  white  light,  the  piazza 
beneath  a  moving,  murmuring  throng,  the  splashing  of 
the  fountains  mi'Jgled  with  the  plaintive  notes  of  a  night- 
ingale, "singing  as  if  in  pain,"  in  the  dewy  shadows  of 
the  Medici  gardens    and  on  the  moonlit  slopes  of  the 

Pincio. 

It  was  a  place  and  an  hour  to  invite  confidence,  and  I 
knew  that  Camille  was  silently  suffering  his  first  great 
sorrow.  Not  that  it  was  apparent  to  the  casual  observer. 
On  the  contrary,  he  is  gayer  than  ever,  with  a  sort  of 
restless,  reckless  mirth  ;  enthusiastic  over  this  wonder- 
ful city;  delighted  with  all  he  sees  and  experiences; 
planning  and  executing  a  dozen  different  excursions  ; 
impatient  to  begin  work,  and  yet  wishing  to  see  and 
accomplish  everything  at  once ;  as  excited  and  active  as 
a  student  out  on  his  first  holiday. 

Had  I  not  accidentally  become  acquainted  with 
Cawille's  secret,  /  still  shoulil  suspect  that  something 


I 


.»»eH*.iwaf»''M|i!!«««Aiit(i>ii»tt.W>»ii"''  y 


lAST. 

'cnt  away  with 
lijiiis  bisfore  the 
na  of  lier  chtU- 


nille,  sitting  on 
(lined  with  me, 
outside  to  take 
ichanting  view, 
e  outline  of  St. 
he  black  cross, 
s  and  churches, 
.as  and  marble 
ght,  the  piazza 
he  splashing  of 
notes  of  a  night- 
ewy  shadows  of 
it  slopes  of  the 

onfidence,  and  I 
;  his  first  great 
!  casual  observer. 
,  with  a  sort  of 
'er  this  wonder- 
ud  experiences ; 
•ent  excursions  ; 
ling  to  see  and 
ed  and  active  as 

Lcquaintcd    with 
tliat  something 


LA  SANTA. 


189 


was  wrong.  T  have  suffered  enough  myself  to  recognize 
the  signs  of  a  heart  ill  at  ease,  and  I  liave  also  learned 
that  those  wlio  go  tlirough  life  Avitli  sorrowful  faces  are 
not  the  most  unhappy.  Those  who  suffer  most  are  those 
wlio  conceal  it.  Is  there  anything  more  heart-breaking 
than  a  soul  in  distress  silently  enduring  its  pain,  in  the 
midst  of  pleasure  ?  Tlie  fluslied  cheeks,  tlie  smiling 
lips,  the  sparkling  eyes,  the  light  jest,  are  all  such  ex- 
cellent masks  that  his  friends  exclaim,  "How  happy  he 
is  I  "  lUit  (}()(1,  who  alone  sounds  the  depths,  knows  that 
he  is  in  torment. 

Whether  I  have  an  exceptional  intuition  of  human 
sorrow,  or  whether  I  have  a  softer  heart  than  usually 
beats  under  a  waistcoat,  I  know  not ;  but  I  never  come 
in  contact  Avitli  suffering  in  any  form  that  I  do  not  dis- 
cern it,  and  all  my  heart,  all  my  being,  cries  out,  in  com- 
passion, "  I  know  you ;  you  are  my  brother ;  you  are  my 
flesh  and  blood.    Oome  to  me,  and  let  us  weep  together." 

Although  I  have  never  hinted  at  a  suspicion  to  Ca- 
mille,  or  given  the  least  sign  that  I  know  aught  of  his 
affairs,  he  must  have  felt  by  some  mental  pi'ocess  that  I 
suspected  his  true  condition,  for  after  we  sipped  our 
coffee,  and  admired  the  city  from  our  elevated  position, 
conversation  languished  and  died  into  silence,  broken 
now  and  then  by  an  unconscious  sigh  from  Camille,  as 
he  puffed  at  his  cigar,  his  clear-cut  features  making  a 
severely  gloomy  silhouette  against  the  moonlit  wall. 

At  length,  turning  to  me,  he  said  abruptly  and  bitterly, 
"  My  friend,  have  you  perceived  that  I  am  acting  apart? 
Have  you  guessed  how  miserable  I  am  under  this  brave 
show  of  happiness,  this  shaia  enthusiasm  ?  " 

"  You  unhappy  —  you,  Ca'iille  ?  "  1  replied,  evasively ; 
then  thinking  sincerity  the  setter  part,  I  added,  "  Yes, 


nc'jgWMriHiiMiMMM^aM;'-,.' 


190 


THE   STOUY   OF   AN   KNTIIU8IAST. 


to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  knew  that  something  was  wrong 

with  you." 

"And  you  wondered  what  had  happened  to  me.  iou 
never  suspected  my  secret;  you  never  knew  why  I 
neglected  my  studies,  my  master,  my  friends  — why  I 
changed  my  habits,  my  desii-es,  the  very  thoughts  of  my 
heart  — why  I  disregarded  my 'interests,  my  career,  my 
honor,  my  pride,  my  ambition,  all,  all,  until  I  see  noth- 
ing but  ruin  around  me.  Search  where  I  will  nito  my 
soul,  my  talents,  hopes,  aspirations,  I  see  only  a  fright- 
ful abyss,  from  which  I  shrink  with  horror." 

He  went  on  vehemently,  never  waiting  for  an  answer. 
"I  was  so  happy,   and  that  makes  my  misery  more  ap- 
palling.    I  was  in  the  midst  of  bright  morning,  when 
suddenly  it  became  night,  a  black  night,  peopled  with 
demons  and  hideous  chimeras.     Was  I  a  fool  that  I  was 
deceived  so  easily!     Alas,  no  — I  was  young,  I  had  the 
passive  credulity  of  youth  that  goes  hand  in  hand  with 
blind  passion  straight  toward  the  abyss.     I  could  weep 
for  myself  when  I  think  how  sudden,  how  unutterably 
cruel,  my  disillusion  was.    I  loved  life,  I  loved  my  fellow- 
men,  I  had  a  good  heart,  I  was  generous  and  impulsive ; 
my  aspirations  were  noble,  my  dreams  sublime,  and  my 
happiness  seemed  without  a  limit,  boundless,  eternal. 
You  may  think  it  absurd  that  one  disappointment  should 
change   the   whole  philosophical  and    moral    condition 
of  a  man  ;  that  a  few  months  happiness  with  a  woman 
destitute  of  every  grace  of  the  soul  should  destroy  all 
relish  for  what  is  good  and  noble,  should  take  the  very 
flavor  out  of  life,  should  reduce  a  happy,  generous,  sin- 
cere nature  to  a  cold,  bitter  cynic,  change  an  honest 
man  into  a  villain,  into  an  utterly  despicable  creature.' 
«  Hush,  hush,  my  friend,"  I  interrupted.     "  You  must 


T. 
was  wrong 

0  me.  Y{>a 
iiew  why  I 
ids  —  why  I 
iU>j;lits  of  my 
,'  ciireer,  my 

I  see  uoth- 
vill  into  my 
ily  a  fright- 

r  an  answer. 
?ry  more  ap- 
jrning,  when 
peopled  with 
A  that  I  was 
ig,  I  had  the 
in  hand  with 

1  eoukl  weep 
V  nnutterably 
ed  my  fellow- 
d  impulsive ; 
lime,  and  my 
Hess,  eternal, 
itment  should 
ral  condition 
,vith  a  woman 
Id  destroy  all 
take  the  very 
generous,  sin- 
ge an  honest 
ble  creature." 

"You  must 


LA    SANTA. 


191 


not  condemn  yourself  so  severely.     You  certainly  exag- 
gerate your  condition.     It  is  impossible." 

"Yes,  you  may  well  think  it  impossible;  it  is  difti- 
cult  to  believe.     At  times  I  doubt  if  I  am  myself,  or 
whether  by  some  spell  of  the  Circe  I  have  been  changed 
into  a  fiend.     AVhon  I  regret  my  past,  it  is  not  so  much 
my  lost  illusions,  the  trust  and  confidence  of  my  youth, 
my  disenchantment.     It  is  the  wrong  I  have  done  to 
others.     Let  me  tell  you  all ;  you   can  judge  me  after- 
ward, and  1  implore  you  not  to  despise  me  utterly.     I 
need  your  trust  and  friendship,  for  I  am  like  one  shii> 
wrecked  and  wellnigh  exhausted  through  battling  with 
the  storms  and  tempests  in  my  own  soul.     The  woman 
I  loved  so  madly  was  a  friend  of  Tolonai ;  he  had  known 
her  since  her  childhood.     In  fact,   she  was  his  foster- 
sister,  and  he  led  me  into  the  snare.    I  did  not  think  that 
he   deceived   me   wilfully ;   I  w^ould   rather  think   that 
he  did  not  know  her  true  character.     They  seemed  to 
be  devoted  friends ;  a  sort  of  fraternal  relation  existed 
between  them.     At  first  I  thought  it  might  be  a  warmer 
feeling,  but  nothing  in  her  conduct  confirmed  my  suspi- 
cion.    I  need  not  tell  you  that  I  loved  her  from  the 
first  hour  I  spent  in  her  presence,  nor  need  I  tell  you  of 
lier  beauty.    It  is  the  fatal  inheritance  of  those  whose 
hands  are  chains  and  whose  feet  lead  down  to  hell.     I 
had  never  loved  before  ;  I  had  been  like  a  gay  butterfly 
flitting  from  flower  to   flower,  spreading   my  careless 
wings  in  the  sunshine,  rejoicing  in  the  beauty  and  grace 
of  every  created  thing.     But  she,  with  her  unholy  spell, 
took  my  very  soul  captive,  and   T  counted  myself  the 
most  fortunate  of  mortals  to  be  the  favored  slave  of  her 
caprices.     I  rushed  into  the  maddest  extravagance  to 
surround  her  with  luxury.     I  spent  my   own  liberal 


192 


THE  STORY  OP  AN  ENTHUSIAST. 


allowance ;  I  borrowed  secretly  from  my  mother,   my 
brothers,  and  even  my  sister,  who  was  about  to  marry  a 
worthy  young  man,  whom  she  had  loved  from  childhcud. 
Then  I  preyed  upon  my  friends  until  they  turnet^  their 
backs  upon  me  or  looked  at  me  askance.    When  every 
other  resource  failed,  I  went  4;o  the  money-lenders  and 
borrowed  all  I  possibly  could  on  the  expectation  of  my 
inheritance.     I  had  read  and  heard  of  the  sudden  en- 
gulfing of   fortunes  in  such  unholy  maelstroms,  but  I 
had  always  supposed  the  truth  was  exaggerated.     IMy 
friend,  there  is  no  exaggeration  possible.     It  is  a  vortex 
that  swallowsall,  all  — wealth,  fame,  honor,  and  even 
the  immortal  soul.    When  I  had  no  more  to  give,  — I 
hate  to  confess  such  a  burning    shame    to   you,  — in 
order  to  bind  her  to  me  forever,  I  offered  her  my  hand 
in  marriage,  and  my  name,  —  my  noble  name,  kept  pure 
and  unsidlied  by  generations  of  honorable  men  and  saint- 
ly women.     It  was  the  last  thing  I  had  to  offer  her,  and 
she  refused  it  with  scorn,  laughed  like  a  demon  at  my 
indignation,  and  asked  me  if  I  had  a  fortune  to  offer  her 
as  well  as  a  title,  and  when,  craven  that  I  was,  I  con- 
fessed that  at  last  I  had  reached  the  end  of  my  resources, 
she  coolly  told  me  that  I  could  follow  the  way  Polonse 
had  taken,  into  the  Mant  for  aught  she  knew,  as  he  had 
given  no  sign  of  life  for  months.     Then  for  the  first 
time  I  learned  how  I  had  betrayed  my  friend,  for  he  was 
•    my  friend,  poor  Tolonae,  and  he  had  a  noble  heart.    Now 
I  know  how  he  loved  her,  and  how  he  too  sacrificed  all 
for  her,  and  that,  maddened  by  her  infidelity  and  my  de- 
'   ception,  he  rushed  away  from  us  to  plunge  himself  into 
'  oblivion.    Unhappy  man,  doubly  unhappy,  to  believe  the 
friend  he  loved  and  trusted  had  wilfully  usurped  hia 
place  and  betrayed  his  confidence.      Oh,  I  feel  as  if 


,)j,»#jWlllW»WJB**»'^ 


1 


■5T. 

mother,   my 
t  to  marry  a 
)m  childhood, 
turnet!  their 
When  every 
y-lenders  and 
tation  of  my 
e  sudden  en- 
3troms,  but  I 
gerated.     ^ly 
It  is  a  vortex 
or,  and   even 
I  to  give,  —  I 
to   you,  —  in 
her  my  liand 
me,  kept  pure 
nen  and  saint- 
offer  her,  and 
demon  at  my 
i\e  to  offer  her 
I  Avas,  I  con- 
my  resources, 
e  way  Tolonse 
icw,  as  he  had 
1  for  the  lirst 
?nd,  for  he  was 
le  heart.    Now 
)  sucriticed  all 
ity  and  my  de- 
;e  himself  into 
,  to  believe  the 
ly  usurped  hia 
h,  I  feel  as  if 


LA   SANTA. 


103 


I  had  murdered  him,  as  if  the  brand  of  Cain  was 
upon  me." 

"  Let  me  give  you  some  consolation,"  I  said,  as  my 
poor  friend  paused  to  wipe  away  the  tears  of  anguish 
that  filled  his  eyes  at  the  thought  of  Polonae's  wretched 
fate.  "  You  have  not  that  calamity  to  accuse  yourself 
of.  I  saw  our  friend  on  the  eve  of  his  departure  from 
Taris.  He  told  me  he  was  going  to  I'oland,  and  should 
never  return  to  France." 

"  Thank  God  for  the  comfort  you  have  given  me.  I 
was  haunted  with  the  thought  that  perhaps  I  had  been 
the  unwilling  cause  of  my  friend's  death.  I  judged  of 
him  by  my  own  stormy,  insane  passion.  Death  seemed 
the  only  refuge  left  me,  when  I  rushed  from  her  pres- 
ence, maddened,  bewildered,  I  knew  not  whither.  I 
thought  of  the  different  means  of  ending  my  misery, 
but  shrank  from  them  all.  I  felt  that  it  would  be  the 
crowning  ignominy  of  a  weak,  ignoble  life.  I  tried  to 
be  stoical,  to  find  some  strength  in  philosophy,  some 
comfort  in  religion,  but,  alas !  I  could  not  reason,  and  the 
heavens  seemed  made  of  brass.  My  prayers  and  cries 
fell  back  on  me  without  being  heard.  After  wandering 
about  in  an  aimless  way  for  several  days,  exhausted  by 
fasting  and  fever,  I  went  to  my  apartment,  which  had  seen 
little  of  me  for  months,  and  threw  myself  on  my  bed 
with  the  hope  that  I  should  never  rise  again.  I  believed 
that  I  was  seriously  ill,  and  I  imagined  that  it  was  easy 
to  die ;  but  death  does  not  come  at  the  bidding,  especially 
when  one  is  only  twenty-five.  I  slept  for  several  hours, 
and  awoke  physically  refreshed,  my  mind  clear  and  my 
stomach  craving  food.  I  arose,  dressed  myself  carefully, 
and  went  with  a  smiling  face  to  the  Cafo  Cujas,  where  I 
partook  of  a  hearty  breakfast,  and  chatted  gayly  with 


104 


THK   STOUY   OK    AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


the  habituh  of  the  place,  who  all  declared  that  I  had 
neglected  them  shamefully  of  late,  and  congratulated  me 
on°my  return  to  my  old   haunts  looking   so  well  and 
h'u.py      And  all  the  while  the  students  and  artists  were 
bantering   and   jesting,  distinctly  above  their   words   I 
seemed  to  hear  another  voiite,  stern  and  imi.lacf^ble,  re- 
peating over  and  over,  'Eat  and  drink  and  be  merry,  for 
to-morrow  thou  shalt  die.'     That  little  faree  ended,  I 
returned  to  my  room,  bolted  my  door,  and  sat  down  to 
write  a  farewell  letter  to  my  father,  in  which  1  con- 
fessed  everything,   and  implored  his   forgiveness    and 
lenient   judgment  of    my   folly.      Afterward,   I   wrote 
another  letter  to  my  mother.    The  thought  of  the  sorrow 
I  was  about  to  cause  her  melted  my  heart ;  and  I  vept 
freely,  the  first  tears  I  had  shed  since  childhood.     Ihat 
burst  of  passionate  weeping  calmed  me  somewhat,  but 
still  I  was  resolved  to  end  all  then  and  there.     I  folded 
ray  letters,  addressed  them,  and  made  some  little  memo- 
randa of  several  different  things,  put  my  desk  in  order, 
closed  it  and  lo(tked  it,  and  laid  the  key  with  the  letters 
There  was  nothing  more  to  do,  but  I  still  hesitated     I 
was  so  young,  the  world  was  so  beautiful,  the  hereafter 
so  dark  and  uncertain.     The  red  evening  sun  shone  ui 
my  window  and  lay  like  a  golden  bar  across  the  wall  ot 
my  room.     T  could  not  die  with  that  bar  of  sunlight 
wavering  before  me.    It  crept  up  and  up  as  the  sun  sank 
lower  and  lower,  and  I  fell  to  thinking,  I  would  wait 
until  it  reached  the  iJtmost  limit  and  was  no  longer  vis- 
ible.    That  should  be  the  sign.     It  drifted  upward  like 
a  mounting  flame  and  suddeidy  went  out.     Still  I  Ini- 
gered  at  the  mooring  of  Time,  fearing  to  cut  my  frail 
bark  loose.     The  sun  lay  in  glory  over  the  great  city. 
From  my  window  I  could  see  the  dark  outline  of  the 


LA   SANTA. 


IDo 


that  I  liiid 
itiiliited  me 
o  well  and 
a,vtists  were 
ir  words  I 
[)laca,blc,  re- 


merry 


for 


ce  ended,  I 
lat  down  to 
hich  1  cou- 
iveuess    and 
rd,   I   wrote 
f  tlie  sorrow 
and  I  ..'ept 
hood.     That 
mewhiit,  but 
e.     I  folded 
little  memo- 
isk.  in  order, 
li  the  letters, 
hesitated.     I 
he  hereafter 
iim  shone  in 
s  the  wall  of 
of   sunlight 
the  sun  sank 
[  would  wait 
10  longer  vis- 
upward  like 
Still  I  lin- 
)  cut  my  frail 
le  great  city. 
)utline  of  the 


trees  in  the   Luxembourg  garden,  that  garden  where  I 
had  passed  so  many  bright  hours,  the  si)C)t  where  1  had 
iirst  seen  her,  her  lovoly  radiant  face,  her  eyes  so  full  of  the 
bewildering  light  tliat  led  my  senses  astray.     Oh,  and  I 
had  come  to  this !     So  near  the  gates  of  eternity  and  my 
soul  so  far  from  God  !     Even  in  this  supreme  hour  lier 
memory  had  comi^,  bright  but  baleful,  to  lead  my  soul 
astray,  to  lure  me  from  my  purpose,  to  weaken  my  haiul, 
to  unnerve  me,  to  make    a  coward  of  me  at  the  last. 
With  a  despairing  cry  I  threw  myself  on  my  knees  and 
implored  the  mercy  and  pardon  of  my  Creator.    At  that 
moment    there  was   an  imperative    knock  at  my    door. 
Sliould  I  answer  it  ?     Oh,  fool  and  weak !  the  thought 
flitted    through   my  mind  that  it  might  be    a   message 
from  her.  Trembling  with  eagerness,  I  opened  the  door 
and  my  mother,  my  adored  mother,  pale  and  anxious, 
threw  her  loving  arms   around  me.     God  liad   sent  her 
to  save    me.     With    the    tender  intuition  of  a  mother, 
she  felt  that  I  was  in    trouble,    and   had  hastened    to 
Paris,  to  bo  near  me.    I  drew  lier  into   my  room,  and 
on  my  knees  before  her  I  confessed  all.     "  Poor  child, 
unhappy  boy  !  "  was  her  only  reproach.     "  You  must  re- 
turn, with  me,  you  must  go   to   your  father   and  seek 
his  forgiveness,  and  then  you  must  make  your   future 
blot  out  your  past.     I  obeyed  her  as  submissively  as  a 
child.     At  first  my  father  was  obdurate,  but,  owing  to 
my  mother's  and  sister's  intercession,  he  finally  softened, 
and  forgave  me.     In  order  that  my  debts  might  be  paid, 
my  sweet,  heroic  sister  insisted  on  resigning  her  dot  and 
postponing  her  marriage.  After  these  harrowing  details 
were   arranged,  I    resolved   to    return   to    my    studies. 
Paris  is  hateful  to  me.     The  certainty  of  your  friendship 
and  my  master's   affection   drew  me  after  you.    Can 


196 


THK   STORY   OP   AN    KNTHUSIA8T. 


you  wonder  tliiit  1  suffer  ?  Is  it  not  a  record  fur  iingels 
to  weep  over  ?     How  can  I  ever  retrieve  the  past  ?  " 

"  Look  !  "  1  said,  pointing  to  my  "  star  of  strength  " 
hanging  over  the  blacli  cross.  "  That  is  an  enibl-'Ui  of 
peace  after  i)ain.  Look  upward,  and  happiness  will 
come  with  Heaven's  divine  calm." 

"I  will  try  to  hope,"  he  said,  briefly.  And  with  a 
sad  good-night  he  went  away,  leaving  me  there  alone  in 
the  still,  moonlit  night  to  think  over  his  story  of 
passion  and  despair. 


tl 
fi 
I 

ai 


V. 

"Light-footed  iMay."  To  me  this  is  the  most  beau- 
tiful month  of  the  wliole  year,  and  it  is  also  my  fa- 
vorite child  of  the  spring.  Here,  in  Rome,  where  nature 
is  so  opulent  in  her  beauty,  every  old  wall  and  time- 
stained  ruin  is  bursting  into  verdure  and  bloom.  The 
gray  olive  has  put  off  her  nun-like  robes,  and  donned  a 
livery  of  tender,  modest  green.  The  acacias  hang  out 
their  fluttering  bridal-veils  to  tlieir  wooers  the  sun  and 
soft  south-wind,  the  orange  and  lemon  scatter  their  fra- 
grant waxen  petals  with  a  lavish  prodigality,  and  the 
bare  boughs  of  the  almond-tree  are  white  and  fringed 
with  delicate  blossoms  that  seem  to  quiver  with  a 
subtle  happiness,  as  if  the  dead  branches  felt  the  mood 
of  May  and  burst  into  beauty  before  their  time.  The 
very  air  is  exuberant  with  life  and  joy ;  countless  winged 
things  sport  and  flutter  in  the  light  and  warmth.  Every 
bush  and  shrub  is  vocal  with  the  singing,  twittering 
birds.  Mother  Nature  is  exultant  over  her  lovely  flower- 
crowned  child,  and  we  who  are  in  the  May  of  life  find 
it  pleasant  to  rejoice  with  her. 


ol 
it 
m 


hi 
fr 
d( 

Pi 
d( 

bi 

ps 

fij 
di 

St 

br 

W( 

oil 


■Ill  I  i^"  <l.l<l—tft 


lift 


T. 

1  for  iingels 
I  past  ?  " 
if  strength" 
embl"m  of 
ppiness  will 

\n(l  with  a 
icre  uloiiu  in 
is   story    of 


LA    SANTA. 


107 


3  most  beau- 
also  my  fa- 
v^liere  nature 
I  and  time- 
)loom.  The 
id  donned  a 
IS  hang  out 
;he  sun  and 
;er  their  fra- 
ity,  and  the 
and  fringed 
ver  with  a 
It  the  mood 

time.  The 
tless  winged 
ttth.  Every 
:,  twittering 
)vely  flower- 

of  life  find 


In  the  first  flush  of  morning,  I  am  out  and  away  over 
the  Campagna,  with  the  fresh  wind  blowing  in  my  face; 
frocdom,  fragrance,  beauty,  all  around  me.  Sometimes 
I  enoouutor  I'aul,  with  his  arms  full  of  blossoming  vines 
and  blue  cam2)auala,  and  — 

"  I  know  the  way  he  went 

To  bear  his  new  love's  posy, 
For  Ills  feet  have  touched  the  meadows 
And  left  the  daisies  rosy." 

ire  too  is  in  the  mood  of  May.  Oh,  youth  and  love ! 
We  who  are  dowered  with  both  are  feasting  with  the 
gods,  did  we  but  know  it.  Yea,  more  !  we  are  drinking 
of  the  waters  of  Paradise ;  and  it  is  the  only  draught  of 
it  we  shall  ever  have  on  earth.  Feast,  quaff,  while  we 
may,  for  the  evil  days  come,  wlien  the  nectar  turns  to 
gall  on  our  lips,  and  the  sparkling  fountains  are  frozen. 

*  *  •  •  • 

I  have  seen  but  little  of  Camille  since  tlie  night  of 
his  confessions.  I  know  that  he  has  set  up  his  easel  in  a 
friend's  studio,  and  is  working  bravely.  Tlioy  say  he  is 
doing  wonders,  and  M.  Ingres  is  again  rejoicing  in  the 
promise  of  his  future  career.  We  are  all  working  within- 
doors as  much  as  we  can  this  charming  spring  weather; 
but  I  think  we  all  like  best  to  make  studies  of  the  Cam- 
pagna. Even  those  who  are  devoting  their  talents  to 
figure  compositions  like  to  introduce  a  background  of 
distant  violet  mountains,  a  tender  opal  sky,  a  long 
stretch  of  olive-greeu  plain,  a  group  of  trees  shading  a 
broken  arch  or  ruined  shrine  or  garden  wall  hung  with 
yellow  roses,  a  broken  column  with  tufts  of  lovely 
weeds  and  grasses,  waifs  of  the  air  and  generous  sun, 
outcast  children  of  the  flower  kingdom,  that  have  a  grace 


I! 


H 


1!»M 


TIIK   HT(>1^Y   OK   AN    KNTIIl'Sl AST. 


iiiul  beauty  all  their  own ;  1  love  tlu'sc  liomcly  bliiii-cyt-d 
little  beggars,  that  glance  shyly  at  one  from  every  nook 
and  cranny  of  these  old  walls,  where  they  cling 
and  flutter,  wooing  the  sun  and  the  showers,  niueh 
better  than  the  stately  blossoms  that  stand  in  dignified 
rows  in  the  well  kejjt  parterre. 

Tomorrow  is  the  flower  festival  at  Genzano,  an.l 
Camille  came  to  talk  to  mc  about  it.  Of  course  we  muwl 
go.     It  is  unique,  a  very  carnival  of  flowers. 

We  went  together  to  invite  the  Villa  Medici  party  to 
join  ns,  and  found  Paul  at  his  easel,  and  La  Santa 
posing  near  the  same  stone  bench  where  I  first  saw  her, 
with  the  same  lovely  smile  on  her  lips  and  the  same 
heavenly  light  in  her  eyes. 

I  think  she  is  more  lovely  in  that  pre-Raphaelite  cos- 
tume than  in  any  of  the  other  simple,  pretty  gowns  she 
wears.  It  seems  to  suit  her  classic  style,  to  add  grace 
and  dignity  to  her  form,  and  I  am  sure  Camille  was  as 
much  impressed  with  her  exquisite  beauty  as  I  was  the 
first  time  I  saw  her,  for  he  turned  to  me  with  a  new 
light  in  his  eyes,  and  said,  in  a  low  tone :  — 

"  What  a  celestial  face !  What  a  model  for  earthly 
eyes  to  feast  on  !  Who  can  transfer  that  divine  expres- 
sion to  canvas ! " 

"  No  one  but  Taul,"  I  replied,  looking  over  my  friend's 
shoulder  at  his  study.  There  I  saw  a  graceful,  spiritual 
figure  against  an  ethereal  background  of  pale  blue  and 
gray ;  the  outlines  tender  yet  strong,  the  color  glowing 
with  a  soulful  harmony  and  truth. 

Camille  drew  near,  and  said,  reverently,  "  My  friend, 
this  picture  will  make  you  famous." 

I'aul  raised  his  happy  eyes  to  us  with  a  grateful  smile. 


"(J 

thei 

ins] 

bef( 

V 

hen 

lea\ 

of 

Can 

saiii 

fact 

rail 

ove; 
(( 

you 
mo( 
'*su 
Oui 
.Ma« 
woi 
you 
sitt 

•I 

llo^ 

de] 

a 

reli: 

1 

frai 

ffen 

saci 


1 


-  tiWiWil*^"''^***"'''"'***'*'^''**'*'*'"' 


T. 

ily  l)liit;-(!y»'(l 
I  nvi'ry  110' "k 
tlify  cliiij,' 
iwevH,  mui'li 
.  ill  digiiitk'd 


enziino,  ami 
irse  we  must 

dici  party  to 
id  La  .Santa 
first  saw  lier, 
nd  the  sam<' 

iphaelite  ros- 
ty  gowns  she 
to  add  graco 
iniille  was  as 
as  I  was  the 
!  with  a  new 

;1  for  earthly 
livine  expres- 

n-  my  friend's 
3ful,  spiritual 
)ale  blue  and 
jolor  glowing 

"My  friend, 

'rateful  smile. 


LA    HANTA. 


11)9 


mumman'ofitfi^' 


"  (Jive  all  the  praise  to  my  model,  not  to  me.  Wliatitver 
there  is  good  in  it  is  due  to  Mile.  Angi'di'iue.  She  is  my 
inspiration.  Who  could  [laint  a  had  picture  with  her 
before  him  ?  " 

While  we  were  eriticising  tiie  study,  the  girl  seated 
iierself  beside  her  mother,  and  was  absently  plucking  the 
leaves  from  a  branch  of  roses  that  fell  over  the  back 
of  the  bench,  whilt^  httr  eyes  were  lixed  earnestl}  on 
Oamille.  She  seemed  to  be  following  every  word  ho 
said,  and  to  be  studying  every  expression  of  his  brilliant 
face.  When  he  turned  toward  her,  her  eyes  sought  the 
ruined  blossoms  in  her  hand,  and  a  faint  Hush  passed 
over  her  cheek. 

"  Let  me  thank  you,  mademoiselle,  for  the  pleasure 
you  have  given  me.  One  does  not  meet  with  such  a 
model  often,  nor,"  with  an  admiring  glance  at  Paul, 
••  such  a  genius  to  understand  and  express  what  ho  sees. 
Our  friend  is  more  than  fortunate."  Then,  turning  to 
.Madam  llaymond,  he  said,  with  all  the  deference  one 
would  use  in  asking  a  favor  of  a  queen,  "  Madam,  will 
you  kindly  allow  mademoiselle  to  give  me  a  few 
sittings  ?  " 

Madam  Kaymond  looked  at  her  daughter  inquiringly. 
•'  I  am  afraid  all  her  time  is  engaged  for  the  present. 
How  is  it,  Angclique?  have  you  leisure  to  pose  for  M. 
de  Krecourt  ?  " 

"  Yes,  mama,  if  M.  de  Brecourt  intends  painting  a 
religious  picture." 

Then,  turning  to  Camille,  she  said,  with  charming 
frankness,  "  You  may  not  know  that  I  never  sit  for 
(jcnre  painters,  and  I  don't  think  you  would  care  for  a 
sacred  subject." 

"Oh,   mademoiselle!"  exclaimed  Camille,  laughing. 


•fi'mmtmitaBiimmm 


200 


Tin:   HTOllV    OF   AN    KNTIIimiAHT. 


"you  aro  sovoro.      Do   I   look  so   worldly  and  frivo- 
lous V  " 

Tho  girl  raised  licr  serious  eyes  to  Do  Hri'coiirt's  face, 
und  said,  gravely,  "  It  is  not  your  IodUh.  I  like  your  faee; 
yet,  for  some  reason,  I  I'eel  that  you  could  not  paint  such 
pictures  as  M.  Fabrien  does." 

"  You  have  judged  rightly,  niadenioiselle  ;  I  couM  not," 
returiu'd  Caniille,  sadly.  "One  must  have  a  very  white 
soul  to  leave  such  a  pure  impression  on  his  canvas.  I'he 
subject  I  have  selected  is  an  episode  in  the  life  of  St. 
Elizabeth  of  Hungary." 

"  1  sliall  like  that,"  she  said,  joyfully.  "  I  love  to  read 
of  her.  What  a  sublime  history  !  What  devotion  and 
self-renunciation!  Oh,  monsieur,  you  have  chosen  a 
beautiful  character  to  portray." 

Paul  looked  at  her  as  ho  put  a  few  more  touches  hero 
and  there  before  removing  his  easel,  and  said,  anxiously, 
"I  hope  mademoiselle  will  remember  that  I  am  to  have 
several  more  sittings  before  this  picture  is  finished,  and 
then  I  have  another  already  in  my  mind." 

"  It  is  true,  Angelique,  you  must  not  forget  M.  Fabrien's 
previous  engagement,  and  you  have  promised  others.  I 
fear  you  will  overtask  yourself,"  suggested  her  mother. 

"Never  fear,  mama.  I  shall  not  neglect  any  of  my 
friends.    The  days  a  .  long,  and  I  am  never  tired." 

Madam  Ilaymoud  turned  to  Camillo,  and  said,  apolo- 
getically, "  You  will  think  my  child  enthusiastic  on  the 
subject  of  art.  In  fact,  she  is  as  much  interested  in 
every  picture  as  though  she  were  painting  it  herself,  as 
though  the  result  was  due  to  her  genius." 

"  It  is,  dear  madam,  it  is ! "  said  Paul,  eagerly.  "  Made- 
moiselle has  a  genius  for  posing.  She  inspires  and  enno- 
bles every  subject ;  she  is  the  spiritual  essence."     Then, 


AHT. 

lly  and   frivo 

hvcoiirt's  fiicc, 
liko  your  face; 
nut  juiiut  uuch 

} ;  I  couM  not," 
e  a  very  wliiti) 
3  canvas.  I'he 
the  life  o£  St. 

"  I  lovo  to  read 
t  devotion  and 
iuxvo   chosen  a 

e  touches  hero 
said,  anxiously, 
t  I  am  to  have 
is  tinishcd,,  and 

;et  M.  Fabrien's 
ised  others.  I 
id  her  mother, 
ect  any  of  my 
ver  tired." 
xnd  said,  apolo- 
usiastic  on  the 
h  interested  in 
g  it  herself,  as 

igerly.  "  Made- 
ipires  and  enno- 
isence."     Then, 


LA  BANTA. 


201 


thinkinj,'  that  ho  liad  spoken  warmly,  \w.  colored    with 
confusion  and  turned  hastily  to  his  work. 

Madam  Itaymond  and  Angi'liiiuo  promised  with  evi- 
dent jjleasuro  to  bo  of  our  party  to-morrow,  and  Taul's 
conjpany  is  countt'd  on  as  a  matter  of  oourso.  The  day 
promises  to  bo  fine,  and  the  cimntry  is  so  beautiful. 
Ah  mo,  if  Dorethea  wtro  only  hero  to  share  this  joyful 
spring-time  with  me  t 

VI. 

What  a  day  to  mark  with  a  white  Ptone  I  Tf  I  live  to 
bo  old  and  miserable,  the  memory  of  it  will  always  make 
spritig  and  youth  in  my  lieart.  The  weather  has  been 
perfect,  indescribably  soft  and  clear,  with  the  sweetest 
south-wind  blowing  over  miles  and  miles  of  blossoming 
country.  What  fragrance  and  music !  What  light  and 
color  !  —  "  the  lark's  dear  song  above  the  blue  "  —  the 
swallows  flitting  through  the  transparent  air  —  the  lit- 
tle white  wings  of  lazy  clouds  casting  a  tender  shade 
over  the  scarlet  poppies  nodding  among  the  tangled 
grass,  and  beds  of  daisies,  pink,  like  the  flowers  of  para- 
dise, and  the  blue  campanula,  that  children  call  angels' 
bells,  swaying  to  and  fro,  and  perhaps  ringing  soft 
chimes  for  elves  and  fairies. 

•  •  ■  •  • 

We  went  in  two  carriages,  our  own  little  party 
quite  separate  from  the  gay  and  noisy  throng  —  Madam 
Ingres,  Angelique,  Paul,  and  I  in  one,  Madam  Kaymond, 
Laura  Brent,  M.  Ingres,  and  Camille  in  the  other.  Miss 
Brent  has  passed  most  of  her  life  in  England  with  her 
grandparents,  and  this  is  her  first  season  in  Borne. 


202 


THK   STORY   OK   AN    KNTtfUSIAST. 


Everytliiiig  ^vilR  new  and  beautiful  to  her,  ami  she  uiailo 
a  pleasant  addition  to  our  excursion. 

T'aul,  sitting  opposite  to  Angeli(]ue,  with  the  light  of 
her  eyes  f >  U  upon  him,  was  intoxicated  with  his  happi- 
ness, and,  forgetting  hid  habitual  gravity,  he  flashed  and 
sparkled  in  a  way  that  astonished  us  while  it  elicited 
peals  of  merriment  from  all.  We  were  so  light-hearted 
that  we  wore  not  very  particular  as  to  the  quality  of  the 
wit,  but,  if  I  remember  well,  there  were  some  exceedingly 
bright  things  said  by  one  and  another. 

The  carriage  in  which  Caraille  sat  was  in  advance  of 
ours,  consequently  he  too  was  facing  Angidique,  and  I 
noticed  that  often  while  she  was  listening  to  Paul  her 
eyes  looked  beyond  him  to  the  handsome  face  of  Ca- 
mille,  which  was  as  changeable  as  an  April  sky,  now 
bright  and  sunny,  and  then  overcast  with  gloomy 
clouds,  the  memory  of  past  sin  and  suffering. 

When  we  reached  the  Olmata,  at  the  entrance  of  Gen- 
zano,  we  left  the  carriages  and  walked  through  the 
beautiful  avenue  of  elms  to  the  Cesarini  gardens,  to 
which  M.  Ingres  always  had  admission,  and  from  whose 
heights  one  can  see  the  picturesque  town  of  Nemi,  its 
wooded  hills  reflected  in  "  the  oval  mirror  of  its  glassy 
lake." 

M.  Ingres  was  enchanted  with  the  view,  and,  produc- 
ing his  sketch-book,  he  found  a  favorable  position,  and 
set  himself  to  jotting  down  the  salient  points  of  the  wide 
landscape.  Madam  Ingres  and  Madam  Raymond  took 
charge  of  the  hampers  and  prepared  to  set  out  the 
lunch.  The  two  girls,  with  Paul  and  Camille,  wandered 
away  through  the  shadowy  perspective  of  one  of  the 
long  avenues,  and  I  threw  myself  under  a  giant  elm  on 
the  brow  of  the  hill  to  enjoy  the  beauty  of  the  scene, 


>■■  I   ...  n^vjdifa 


SIAST. 

'V,  iiinl  sill'  niiulo 

dtli  the  light  of 
with  his  happi- 
V,  he  Haslicil  and 
Avhile  it  elicited 
so  light-hearted 
he  quality  of  the 
some  exceedingly 

as  in  advance  of 
Angi'lique,  and  I 
ling  to  Paul  her 
lome  face  of  Ca- 
1  April  sky,  now 
st  with  gloomy 
Bering. 

entrance  of  Gen- 
ied  through  the 
irini  gardens,  to 
,  and  from  whose 
own  of  Nemi,  its 
rror  of  its  glassy 

'iew,  and,  produc- 
ible position,  and 
points  of  the  wide 
n  Raymond  took 
i  to  set  out  the 
l^amille,  wandered 
re  of  one  of  the 
;r  a  giant  elm  on 
ity  of  the  scene, 


LA    SANTA. 


20a 


and  to  dream  of  ])orethea,  who  was  never  absent  from 
my  thoughts. 

It  must  liave  been  some  time  that  1  lay  there  lost  in 
a  delicious  rcvery,  and  almost  hidden  among  the  rank 
grass  and  tall  ferns,  when  I  became  conscious  that  some 
one  was  approaching.  I  looked  up,  and  Camille  and 
Angelique  were  walking  slowly  in  my  direction,  absorbed 
in  earnest  conversation. 

A  few  feet  away  from  me  they  stood  still  on  the  edge 
of  a  precipitous  descent  and  looked  with  troubled  eyes 
into  the  still,  black  water  of  the  lake  below  them.  I 
think  Camille  saw  in  it  a  likeness  to  his  own  soul,  weird, 
lonely,  encircled  with  gloomy  shades,  the  burnt-out  crater 
of  an  extinct  volcano,  its  raging  fires  spent,  its  passion 
exhausted,  drowned  and  covered  with  the  leaden  waters 
of  oblivion.  He  looked,  as  he  stood  there,  terribly  dark 
and  forbidding,  and  his  face  was  full  of  brooding  misery ; 
while  Angelique,  in  her  white  gown,  outlined  against  the 
shadow,  appeared  a  radiant  imj)ersonation  of  innocent 
happiness,  the  spirit  of  youth  and  spring. 

Her  eyes  sought  the  downcast  face  of  her  companion 
with  pitying  wonder,  as  though  she  had  a  glimpse  of 
the  dark  secret  of  his  sorrow.  Suddenly  he  looked  up 
and  met  her  gaze,  and  something  he  saw  there  trans- 
figured him  instantly.  It  was  like  the  brief  sun- 
light that  pierces  Nemi's  sullen  depths,  irradiating 
the  gloom  and  reflecting  for  a  moment  the  heavens 
bending  over  it. 

I  seem  destined  to  be  an  unwilling  witness  of  Ca- 
niille's  sentimental  episodes,  and  I  must  say  that  I  re- 
gretted this  as  much  as  I  did  the  other.  In  spite  of  my 
love  for  ray  friend,  I  felt  that  any  outburst  of  earthly 
passion  for  the  innocent  child  before  him  was  almost 


tttamti 


•-» — "" 


204 


THE   STORY   OF   AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


repielK-nsible,  for  his  glance  betrayed  the  birth  of  a  uew 
emotion  in  his  restless,  unsatisfied  soul. 

For  an  instant  each  looked  into  the  face  of  the  other, 
Ang('li<ine  with  anxiety  and  pity,  Caniille  with  earnest 
expectation,  like  one  in  danger  who  suddenly  sees  salva- 
tion near.  Their  attitude  toward  each  other  was  very 
touching.  It  was  the  beginning  of  a  struggle  between 
the  power  of  darkness  and  the  spirit  of  light;  the  first 
glance  of  a  pure  spiritual  nature  into  an  abyss  of  sin 

and  night.  . 

But  she  did  not  shrink.  A  calm,  heroic  smile  dawned 
upon  her  face  as  she  held  out  her  hand,  and  said,  grave- 
ly, "I  know  you  are  unhappy,  and  I  wish  i  could  help 

^°""My  angel,  you  can,"  cried  Camille,  passionately, 
while  he  clasped  her  extended  hand.  "  I  need  just  such 
a  celestial  being  near  me  to  drive  away  the  demons  of 
darkness.     Promise  mr  that  you  will  love  me  and  never 

leave  me." 

"That  is  impossible.  You  must  not  mistake  my  in- 
terest for  love,  the  love  you  mean.  I  love  you,  but  not 
in  an  earthly  sense.  My  love  for  you  is  purely  spiritual. 
My  soul  loves  the  better,  nobler  part  of  your  nature. 
You  must  not  think  me  strange  and  mystical,  but  I  have 
an  intuition,  another  sight,  as  it  were,  that  looks  beyond 
and  above  what  we  see  here.  Hush,"  as  Camille  was 
about  to  make  a  passionte  rejoinder.  "I  see  that  you 
are  disappointed.  You  do  not  understand  me  —  no  one 
does  Well,"  with  a  soft  smile,  « I  will  not  analyze 
my  feelings  for  you;  I  will  leave  you  to  discover  what 
they  are  by  the  light  of  our  friendship." 

«  Ah ! "  cried  Camille,  bitterly,  «  friendship  is  impossi- 
ble between  u8.    You  must  love  me  with  your  whole  being 


1 
c 
1 

s 

e 
e 
d 

V 

P 

Sl 

h 
y 

V 

a; 

k 

fi; 

di 

I 

li( 

w 

dl 

ni 
Ik 
til 
th 
se 
fa 
m 


lAST. 

1  birth  of  a  uew 

■e  of  the  other, 
He  with  earnest 
enly  sees  salva- 
othcr  was  very 
ruggle  between 
:  light ;  the  first 
an  abyss  of  sin 

ic  smile  dawned 
and  said,  grave- 
sh  1  could  help 

le,  passionately, 
I  need  just  such 
Y  the  demons  of 
re  me  and  never 

mistake  my  in- 
3ve  you,  but  not 

purely  spiritual. 

of  your  nature, 
stical,  but  I  have 
hat  looks  beyond 
'  as  Camille  was 

"  I  see  that  you 
;and  me  —  no  one 
(vill  not  analyze 
to  discover  what 

idship  is  impossi- 
your  whole  being 


LA   SANTA. 


205 


in  order  to  save  me  from  myself.  Nothing  less  than  a 
constant,  self-saorifieing  devotion  can  lielp  me.  You  do 
not  know  liow  near  eternal  ruin  I  have  been.  Only  a 
saintly  love  like  yours  can  redeem  me." 

"No  earthly  love  can  redeem  you,"  .slie  replied,  sol- 
emnly. "You  must  purify  your  own  soul.  You  must 
enter  into  tlie  inner  sanctuary  of  sorrow,  and  close  the 
door  on  the  tumult  of  the  world ;  and  there,  face  to  face 
with  yourself,  you  must  study  your  own  nature.  It  is  a 
penance  that  yotir  Creator  requires  of  you.  You  must 
scourge  yourself  spiritually,  and  live  in  tlio  beauty  of 
holiness,  before  you  can  enjoy  the  divine  favor,  before 
you  can  exi)i'riencti  the  l)lesse<lness  of  the  higher  life." 

"Ciiild,  juigol,  saint!  wlio  taught  you  these  things? 
vViiat  can  you  know  of  sorrow,  remorse,  and  penance?" 
asked  Camille,  vcliemently. 

"  Alas  !  it  is  the  inheritance  of  all  Avho  live.     This 
knowledge  must  come  sooner  or  later.     To  .some  it  comes 
early,  as  it  did  to  me.     I  was  only  fifteen  when  papa 
died.     I  loved  him  i)assionately,   exclusively,  jealously. 
I  was  wretched  because  he  was  devoted  to  mama.     If 
lie  sliowed  any  interest  in  any  person  or  thing,  I  was 
wild  with  rage.     I  even  hated  the  pictures  he  worked  on 
so  patiently.     Ciiild  thougli  T  was,  I  endured  the  most 
dreadful   storms   of   passion.     I   was   torn  to  pieces  by 
my  affection  for  him  and  my  sinful  dislike  for  wliatever 
he  loved.     I  was  always  at  war  with  myself  inwardly,  ■ 
though    outwardly    I    was    calm.     They   called    me   a  ^ 
thoughtful,  studious  child,  but  I  was  only  wicked  and 
s.dfish.     I  only  cared  to  earn  the  approval  of  my  earthly 
fatlier,  to  he  first  and   most  precious   to  him.     In  the 
midst  of  this  sinful   idolatry,  he  was  taken  from  me. 
Suddeidy  he  was  quite  gone  out  of  my  life  j  nowhere  in 


206 


THli  STOUY   OF   AN    KNTHU8IAST. 


the  whole  worhl  was  he  to  be  found,  and  I  was  left  be- 
Innd,  stunned  and  helpless.     Very  bitter  was  the  cry  of 
my  obdurate  heart.     There  was  no  place  in  creation  but 
his  grave  ;  and  one  day  I  was  weeping  there  alon.-,  hope- 
le.ss,  solitary,  powerless  in  my  unutterable  anguish,— I 
could  not  l.».k  up;  he  was  not  there;  I  knew  nothing  of 
the  eternity  beyond ;  1  could  only  weep  and   shiver  and 
cling  to  tluit  lost  love,  with  intensest  longing  to  be  at 
rest"  in  its  narrow  bed,  — when   suddenly  a   soft   light 
seemed   to   surround  me,  the  fetters  of   earth  fell   off, 
and  I  appeared  to  be  floating  upward  into  infinite  space, 
borne   gently  on   a   sweet   air,  and   faint   far-otf   music 
lulling    me.       The   earth   was   below   me   with   all   its 
lamenting,  and  I  seemed  to  be  soaring  among  the  stars, 
enveloped  in  rosy  light.     I  was  no  longer  the  mourning 
impatient  child  of  earth,  but  a  new-born,  enfranchised 
spirit  floating  ever  upward  until  I  saw  the  transfigured 
face  of  my  father,  bright,  beautiful,  and  eternally  young. 
He  took  me  in  his  arms,  and  1  lay  at  peace  upon  his 
breast,  fanned  by  the  sweet  air,  lulled  by  the  rapturous 
music.      When    my    spirit  returned  to  earth,  it    was 
twilight.     I  had  been    for  hours  unconscious  by  that 
quiet"  grave.      Mama  came  to  search  for  me,  and   said 
that  I   had  been  sleeping,  and  that  it  was  all  a  beau- 
tiful dream.     But  I  know  it  was  not  a  dream.    It  was 
a  vision   of  eternity,  the  home  of  the  soul.     I  have 
seen  that  blessed  face  as  I  shall  see  it  again  in  the 
beauty  of  immortality.     Since  then  I  have  never  been 
nnhappy.    This   world  is    beautiful    and  ful^   of   joy, 
and  I   love  life  dearly,   but  I  can  see  beyond  it  all, 
beyond  the  joy  and  sorrow,  the  smiles  and  the  tears, 
where   we    shall    find    an  existence  of  such  happiness 
as  we  never  dreamed  of  here.    My  friends  say  I  am  relig- 


y 

h 


h 
w 
tc 
b( 

sa 
li| 

si 

H 


If. 


3T. 

was  left  bo- 
xs  the  cry  jf 

ci't'iition  but 
'  alone,  hope- 
anguish, —  I 
w  nothing  of 
(1  shiver  anil 
ging  to  be  at 

a  soft  light 
avth  fell  off, 
inlinite  space, 

far-otf   music 

with  all  its 
long  the  stars, 
the  mourning 
,  enfranchised 
le  transfigured 
ernally  young, 
eace  upon  his 

the  rapturous 
earth,  it  was 
icious  by  that 

me,  and  said 
as  all  a  beau- 
iream.     It  was 

soul.  I  have 
;  again  in  the 
ive  never  been 
i  fur   of   joy, 

beyond  it  all, 
and  the  tears, 
such  happiness 

say  I  am  relig- 


LA   SANTA. 


207 


lous  and  spiritual,  that  I  am  a  droan.er  an<l  an  ideal- 
ist, but  they  have  never  seen  what  I  have  seen  or  they 
would  understand  me  better.  1  know  what  my  mission 
on  earth  is.  It  is  to  comfort  the  sorrowful,  and  to  try 
and  sliow  them  the  spiritual  exi.stenee  whidi  is  the  in- 
lieritance  of  all  who  have  lived  and  suffered." 

"  r.lessed  consolation,  if  1  could  believe,"  returned  Ca- 

mille,  sadly.     "  Only  love  me,  I  pray  you,  in  any  way  you 

,  can.     My  heart,  my  soul,  my  whole  suffering  being  needs 

It.     I  give  my  salvation  into  your  keeping,  and  oh,  my 

good  angel,  save  me  if  you  can." 

For  a  mom(;nt  she  looked  at  him  silently,  contemi)la- 
tively,  and  then  said,  with  solemn  fervor,  "1  will  en- 
treat God  lor  you.  In  some  way  our  destinies  are 
united.  I  have  felt  it  from  the  first.  There  is  some 
mysterious  bond  between  us.  It  may  be  that  I  am  to 
suffer  for  you,  —  that  I  am  to  save  you  at  last." 

"Sweet  saint,  I  give  myself  into  your  keeping,  and 
froni  this  moment  I  will  try  to  make  myself  worthy  of 
you  "  ;  and,  taking  her  slender  hand  in  his,  he  laid  it  on 
his  heart,  and  then  pressed  it  reverently  to  his  lips. 

When  we  gathered  around  the  tempting  lunch  that  the 
ladies  had  spread  out  under  the  shade  of  a  great  oak 
whose  gnarled  roots  served  for  seats,  I  looked  atCamille 
to  see  if  I  could  discover  any  signs  of  the  conversation 
between  him  and  Angelique,  but  he  wore  his  helmet  of 
pride  with  the  vizor  down,  and  around  his  lips  was  the 
same  light,  mocking  smile,  although  there  was  a  softer 
light  in  his  eyes  as  they  rested  on  the  gentle  face  at  his 
side. 

Paul,  unhappy  Paul !  the  day  had  changed  for  him. 
He  was  exerting  himself  to  be  agreeable  to  Miss  Brent, 


208  THE   STOUY   OF   AN    ENTHUSIAST. 

whom  (lestiuy  had  placed  lu'si.l."  liim,  wliilu  all  tlu;  time 
ho  was  ciivioiis  ..f  (Janiille,  whohudai'pnveahimof  z. 
tetc-a-tfte  (hiiing  their  promenade. 

Alatlam  Ingres  was  also  somewhat  vexed  becaubc  her 
phuis  had  been  frustrate.l  in  the  same  way,  and  seolded 
us  gently  lor  wandering  beyond  her  vision ;  said  that  it 
was  already   long  past  noon,  that  there   would  be  but 
little  turn',  to  si.end  at  (Jenzano,  the  flowers  would  not  be 
fresh,  the  ehnreh  ceremonies  would  be  over,  the  dancing^ 
ended,     lint,  in  spite  of  these  excellent  reasons  for  hur- 
rying, we  ate  leisurely,  chatted  and  laughed  a  great  deal, 
sipped  our  excellent  wine,  and  were  entirely  contented 
where  we  were.     :M.  Ingres  sketched  the  whole  group, 
adde.l  wings  to  Augelique's  shoulders,  and  gave  goat's 
hoofs   and  horns  to  CamiUe,  and  a  r<;ed  to  i  aul,  wlio 
piped  to  the  rosy  Laura,  sitting  fiower-erowned  beside 
him.     A  truly  Arcadian  feat,  and  for  one  day  at  least  we 
were  in  Avcady. 

Nearly  every  one  who  has  been  in  Rome  in  May  has 
seen  the  Inliomfa  at  Genzano,  and,  as  this  little  journal 
is  not  intended  to   be  descriptive,  1   will   pass  over  it 

briefly.  ,     ,  ,  ^ . 

Although  the  sun  was  slipping  westward  when  we  lett 
the  Villa  (Vsarini,  we  still  had  time  to  enjoy  the  pretty 
villa<re  festival.  The  whole  scene  was  bewitchingly 
bri-ht  and  novel.  The  flowers  covering  the  piazza, 
strewn  in  a  mosaic  of  every  color  and  form,  emitted  a 
sweet  perfume  under  the  cruel  feet  that  trampled  their 
delicate  beauty  ruthlessly.  The  straight,  dark-browed 
peasant  girls,  in  their  bright  bodices,  corals,  puis  and 
chains,  with  the  white  tova(,lie  folded  over  their  glossy 
black  braids,  and  the  handsome,   soft-eyed  youths,  in 


T. 

all  tin;  fciiuu 
ed  him  of  r 

becavibc  lier 

ami  s(!oldeil 

said  that  it 

•ould  be  but 

ivould  not  be 

the  dancing^ 

sons  for  hur- 

a  great  deal, 

ly  contented 

whole  group, 

il  gave  goat's 

;o  Paul,  who 

jwned  beside 

ly  at  least  we 


le  in  May  has 
little  journal 
pass  over  it 

1  when  we  left 
joy  the  pretty 
bewitchingly 
;  the  piazza, 
)rm,  emitted  a 
trampled  their 
,  dark-browed 
rals,  pins,  and 
er  their  glossy 
ed  youths,  iu 


LA   SANTA. 


209 


velvet  jackets  and  peaked  liats,  decorated  with  fluttering 
ribbons  and  flowers,  dancied  the  light  salterello  joyously 
to  the  inspiriting  sound  of  tambourines  and  mandolins. 
Hundreds  of  visitors  in  rich  dresses  sauntered  through  the 
shaded  avenues,  A  gorgeous  procession  marched  across 
tlie  mosaic  of  flowers,  with  music  and  flaunting  banners-., 
while  the  ringing  of  bolls  find  the  sound  of  a  band 
playing  a  lively  air  mingled  with  the  whir  of  a  tambou- 
rine and  the  tinkling  of  castanets,  all  gave  movement 
and  brilliancy  to  the  scene. 

Angeli(]uo's  lovely  eyes  beamed  with  pleasure.  The 
flowers,  the  music,  the  bright  faces,  the  flashing  smiles, 
the  simple,  innocent  mirth,  the  free,  untutored  grace  of 
these  children  of  nature,  suited  her  artistic  t(;mpera- 
ment,  while  the  religious  element  in  the  display  gave  a 
touch  of  idyllic  retinement  and  purity  to  what  otherwise 
might  have  seemed  rude  and  common.  And  the  high- 
spirited  young  English  girl,  who,  in  all  her  life,  had 
never  witnessed  such  an  exhibition  of  unrestricted 
mirth,  could  scarcely  be  kept  within  the  bounds  of  pro- 
priety. Her  gay  spirits  rose  with  the  music  and  laughter 
until  she  could  restrain  herself  no  longer. 

"I  think  I  could  dance  the  salterello,"  she  exclaimed, 
looking  around  with  a  smile  of  mischief  in  lier  bright 
eyes.  "Come,  M.  de  Brccourt!  will  you  try  it  with 
me  ?  " 

"Certainly,  with  pleasure,"  replied  Camille,  holding 
out  his  hands. 

Madam  Raymond  was  dismayed.  "Why,  my  dear, 
what  a  sight  you  would  be  in  your  costume.  You  must 
not  think  of  it.  Fancy  M.  de  Brecourt  leaping,  circling, 
and  whirling  in  an  English  frock." 

Paul  was  Avaudering  about  among  the  different  groups, 


ijiiiMiliu 


ii»ii  irt'ft^rtw^''  *  ■■ 


,  II  ■Pij... 


210 


THE   STOUY   OF  AN   KNTIIUSIAST. 


8kotch-l)0f.k  in  hand,  dt'liglitoa  with  nil  ho  saw,  and 
ruhiotant  to  leave,  when  at  last  Madam  In^'ivs,  iK.uituiK 
to  the  declining  snn,  told  ns  tliat  we  must  start  di- 
rectly in  order  to  be  within  the  walls  before  dark. 

Our  drive  back  to  Rome  in  the  solemn  twilight  was 
very  quiet  compared  with  our  boisterous  spirits  in  the 
morning.  By  some  accident  in  the  hurry  of  starting, 
CamiUe"  had  Paul's  place  in  our  carriage,  where  he 
sat  very  grave  and  thoughtful.  Angoliquc's  spiritual 
face  seemed  touched  with  a  celestial  light  as  she  turned 
it  toward  the  heavens,  where  a  slender  silver  crescent, 
with  its  one  attendant  star,  shone  in  remote  splendor. 
Madam  Ingres  talked  but  little,  and  I  too  withdrew 
within  myself  to  commune  with  my  own  thoughts. 
From  time  to  time  a  murmur  of  voices  and  a  subdued 
laugh  from  the  other  carriage  reminded  us  that  we  were 
not  alone  on  that  vast  gray  plain,  so  sombre  and  silent 
now  in  contrast  with  the  radiance  and  beauty  of  the 

morning. 

Again  I  thought:  it  is  an  emblem  of  life;  dawn  and 
\\gU,  youth  and  age.  We  set  out  in  the  red  sunrise, 
over  rosy  paths,  and  wander  on  and  on  until  the  flowers 
are  colorless  and  scentless,  and  darkness  and  oblivion 
close  around  us,  and  all  is  tinished  "as  a  tale  that  is 
told." 


VII. 

I  WEKT  to  see  Camille  to-day,  and  found  him  working 
on  his  picture  of  Saint  Elizabeth  of  Hungary,  and  I  per- 
ceived, by  the  sketch  on  his  easel,  that  he  had  had 
several  sittings  from  La  Santa. 

"She  is  truly  an  inspiration,"  he  said;  «I  seem  to  be 


-«r-->*~r*-!e*ie--. 


LA   SANTA. 


211 


saw,  and 
i,  pointing 

start  (U- 
irk. 

.'ilight  was 
rits  in  the 
if  starting, 

whort>  In- 
s  spiritual 
she  turned 
?r  crescent, 
e  splendor, 
i  withdrew 
I  thoughts. 
[  a  subdued 
at  we  were 
3  and  silent 
Luty  of  the 

;  dawn  and 
•ed  sunrise, 
the  flowers 
iud  oblivion 
tale  that  is 


u\\  -working 

y,  and  I  per- 

he  had  had 

[  seem  to  be 


drawn  out  of  myself  into  another  atmospliere  when  I 
look  fit  her  face  and  listen  to  her  voice,  which  is  a.s 
remarkable  as  her  beauty.  Altogether,  she  is  wonderful, 
with  her  dear,  bright  mind,  her  general  knowledge  of 
the  world  and  books;  her  clever  criticisms  of  art  and 
music;  her  love  of  all  that  is  best;  her  interest  in 
nature  and  humanity  ;  her  exipiisite  taste  in  dress;  her 
artless  recognition  of  her  own  beauty,  and,  added  to  all 
these  purely  earthly  qualities,  her  piety,  her  celestial 
visions,  her  ideal  life,  separate  and  apart  from  these, 
make  her  one  of  the  most  interesting  characters  I 
have  known  or  even  heard  of.  I  like  to  study  her, 
but  I  don't  think  I  understand  her.  She  is  an  enigma 
that  I  cannot  read  clearly.  If  there  was  the  slightest 
affectation  or  self-consciousness  about  the  girl,  I  should 
think  she  was  a  clever  little  actress,  playing  a  part  to 
attract  attention  by  her  originality." 

"She  does  not  really  appeal  to  your  better  nature, 
then,"  I  said,  severely,  "or  you  could  never  harbor 
such  a  thought.  I  have  known  her  as  long  as  you  have, 
and  have  talked  with  her  very  freely,  and  I  am  will- 
ing to  confess  that  I  have  not  sounded  the  depths  of  lier 
nature.  There  is  jnuch  in  such  a  soul  that  must  always 
remain  concealed  even  from  those  who  understand  her 
best.  Her  mother  tells  me  that  she  does  not  feel  always 
sure  that  there  is  a  close  bond  of  sympathy  between 
them.  She  knows  that  her  daughter  loves  her  devotedly, 
but  she  also  knows  that  she  lives  a  spiritual  life  en- 
tirely apart  from  hers." 

"  Madam  Raymond  is  a  woman  of  uncommon  intelli- 
gence and  refinement,  and  a  brilliant  talker.  While 
mademoiselle  is  posing,  the  mother  interests  us  both 
with  her  pleasant  conversation.    One  is  fortunate  to  be 


. 


y:r*g»^''\>!^ftp,^WjW,: ' 


01») 

•a  la^ 


Till-;    STORY    OK   AN    KNTIIl'SIAST. 


al)lo  to  <'ii,it>y  such  !iii  iiitcUccaiuil  feast  and  to  study  such 
u  niodfl  at  tin-  same  time." 

"  ^'cs."  I  n'lilicd,  "it  is  a  lilu'ral  cduoation  in  art. 
Ono  must  im prove  under  such  iuHiUMice.  Siiu  is  so 
earnest  ami  patient;  and  there  is  somethiuf,'  so  toiieh- 
in^'ly  iilial  in  her  exalted  itlea  of  her  duty  to  her 
mother." 

"I'dor  child!"  returned  Camille,  sadly.  "1  must 
confes.s  to  you  tliat  it  piiins  me  to  think  of  hor  follow- 
ing such  a  life.  When  the  first  delicate  beauty  of  youth 
is  past,  she  will  lose  her  great  attraction  as  a  model  for 
the  subjects  she  prefers  — the  spiritual,  celestial  typo. 
I  wonder  if  she  will  go  from  this  to  secular  art.  I  don't 
like  to  think  of  it." 

"Pray,  don't,"  I  replied,  "Mile.  Angolique  will  not 
always  pose  for  artists.  She  will  marry  some  good  num 
and  merge  her  saintship  into  a  hal)i)y  wife  and  mother." 

"Marry!  Whom  will  she  nmrry?"  asked  Camille, 
incredulously. 

"  Paul,  for  example.  I  am  sure  he  loves  her  sincerely. 
What  could  be  more  suitable  ?  he  is  devote^:  to  religion 
as  well  as  to  art.  Imagine  Avhat  Jradonn;,?,  lie  would 
l)aint  from  La  Santa  with  a  babe  in  her  arms." 

While  I  was  speaking,  Camille  turned  very  i)ale,  and 
pressed  his  hand  to  his  eyes  as  if  to  shut  out  a  sight 
that  pained  him.  "Hush,  my  friend,  with  y(mr  clever 
l)redictions.  Such  a  being  is  not  made  for  earthly  love, 
for  simple  domestic  pleasures.     It  seems  sacrilegious." 

"  Is  she  not  preeminently  formed  to  inspire  love  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  a  purely  intellectual  love ;  not  the  warm, 
earthly  passion  you  refer  to." 

"  Then,  you  think  it  will  be  impossible  for  her  to 
return  Paul's  devotion  'i"  I  asked,  tentatively, 


, 

r. 

study  such 

on   in    art. 

•9 

Slio    is   so 

;  so  toucli- 

ity    to    licr 

"  I    must 

lier  follow- 

ty  of  youth 

model  for 

ostiiil  type. 

rt.     I  don't 

lie  will  not 
B  good  nuin 
id  mothf'r." 
ed  Camillo, 

sr  sinci'rj'ly. 

to  roligion 

■j  lie  woidd 

[•y  pale,  and 
out  a  sight 
your  clover 
arthly  love, 
rilegious." 
3  love  ?  " 
the   warm, 

for  her  to 

)'•■ 


liA   SANTA. 


21:} 


"  I  do.     She  will  never  love  him." 

"  In  so  many  respeets  he  is  like  her,"  I  eontinm-d. 
"  She  is  sure  to  lulmire  and  esteem  his  pure,  nolile  ehar- 
acter,  and  that  may  lead  to  a  tenderer  fueling." 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear  Felix  ;  all  nonsen.se,"  exelainied 
Camille,  hotly.  "  She  is  an  uncommon  ehara(!ter.  She 
must  not  he  considered  as  an  ordinary  woman  to  bo  won 
by  tame,  meek  devotion.  In  spite  of  her  softness  and 
angelic  sweetness,  there  is  a  great  deal  of  strength  and 
luiroism  in  her.  She  mi'ijht  love  a  man  who  had  per- 
formed some  exceptionally  sublime  deed." 

"  Cannot  you  be  that  one,  niy  friend  ?  "  I  a.sked,  ear- 
nestly,   "  Such  a  reward  would  be  worthy  a  great  effort." 

'•'  Ah,  no !  "  replied  Camille,  "  I  have  no  chance.  Such 
a  man  must  have  a  strong  soul  and  a  clean  record  ;  and 
I  have  not." 

"  But  you  know  that  a  grand  passion  often  leads  a 
man  to  noble  results.  With  its  aid  you  can  redeem  tlm 
|)ast," 

"  Never !  Witii  me,  a  grand  passion  is  more  likely  to 
end  in  a  grand  despair,  God  knows,  were  I  half  worthy, 
I  would  try  to  win  her ;  but  when  I  think  of  the  other, 
I  falter  and  turn  dumb  before  her.  She  is  goodness  it- 
self. She  knows  I  am  miserable,  and  she  has  offered 
her  sympathy  and  sweet  friendliness  with  so  much  ciin- 
dor  and  innocent  confidence.     Ah  !  she  is  truly  a  saint," 

"Take  courage,  my  friend;  you  will  make  yourself 
worthy,  and  win  her  in  the  end,"  I  said  as  I  left  him.    - 

When  I  returned  to  my  apartment  after  my  visit  to 
Camille,  the  little  maid  opened  the  door  for  me,  and 
said,  with  her  pretty  flashing  smile,  "  The  Siguore 
Francese  is  within." 


JiiM  Ann 


.,# 


814 


THE  8TOUY  OP  AN   KNTHUHIAHT. 


On  oiili-riiij,'  my  studio,  wliirli  also  sorvi'd  for  a  salon, 
I  I'oiiml  Paul  Hitting  ^,'^)()luily  lid'oro  an  caHfl,  on  wh'wh 
was  a  small  ijicturo  I  was  about  scndiiit,'  to  Kn},'land  as  a 
gilt  to  Dorothea.  It  was  a  study  of  my  sunny  wall 
opposito,  and  tin'  slcndor  olcaniliT.  A  girl  was  reaching 
from  the  window  to  pluek  one  of  the  red  hlossoms,  and 
her  fa(!o  was  a  i)oor  likeness  of  La  Santa. 

"  How  did  y(m  get  her?"  asked  Paul,  pointing  to  the 
picture,  while  lie  forgot  to  return  my  greeting.  "  She 
surely  did  not  poso  for  you,  or  it  would  have  been 
bettor." 

"  No,"  I  reidied,  laughing.  "  What  resemblaiuie  there 
is  is  stolen.  You  must  not  tell  her,  or  she  will  avoid  me 
in  the  future.  It  happened  this  way.  One  day  when 
you  were  painting  in  the  garden,  I  waa  sauntering  about 
among  the  trees,  and  from  a  favorable  position  I  made 
the  little  sketch,  and  just  a  few  hints  in  my  note-book ; 
then,  from  that  and  memory  1  painted  this,  but,  as  you 
say,  it  is  poor.  It  is  neither  fish  nor  fowl;  it  hwkn 
everything  that  La  Santa  has,  and  yet,  with  all  its  faults, 
it  is  a  purer  face  than  1  could  get  from  a  model." 

"  If  you  had  not  left  your  heart  in  Englaiul,  I  should 
think  that  you  too  were  touched  with  the  same  insanity 
as  the  rest  of  us  are  suffering  from,"  said  Taul,  gloomily 
and  bitterly. 

"  What  insanity  ?    What  do  you  call  insanity  ?  " 

"Why,  to  love  Mile.  Raymond." 

"That  is  a  species  of  madness  that  might  be  easily 
pardoned.  I  am  her  devoted  friend,  I  admire  her,  1 
reverence  her  beyond  what  I  can  express,  and  I  am 
enthusiastic  about  her  beauty  ;  but  I  am  not  your  rival, 
dear  Paul." 

"  I  can  say  all  of  her  that  you  do,"  returned  my  friend, 


or  a  salon, 
,  on  wliitOi 

i^'liind  iis  ii 
unny  wall 
IS  rcacliiiiK 
issonis,  and 

tin^  to  thti 

iiiK'.  "  '**'/"' 
have    been 

laii(!(>  then) 
11  avoid  nin 

day  \vli(!n 
criiit,'  about 
ion  I  niado 

note-book ; 
but,  as  you 
:1 ;  it  la(!kH 
U  its  faults, 
lei." 

id,  I  should 
nie  insanity 
il,  gloomUy 

lity  ?  " 

it  bo  easily 

mire  her,   1 

,  and  I  am 

your  rival, 

[1  my  friend, 


LA  8ANTA. 


215 


raisinj,'  his  wistful  oy,  to  my  faeo ;"  but,  unhappily,  / 
love  her  to  the  ver^e  nl  iiiadne.ss.'' 

"  Why  unhappily,  my  dear  boy  "/ " 

"  Hecause  she  doen  not  return  it." 

"  Are  you  sure  '.*  " 

'•  All,  yes,  too  sure.  I  have  just  loft  her.  It  is  her 
motlier's  wish  that  she  should  aceept  nu-,  and  Madam 
Ingres  has  set  her  heart  on  it,  and  ratlier  urged  me  to 
tlio  ill!  none  me  Ht,  which,  I  fear,  was  unwisely  hastened, 
I'erhaps  if  1  had  waited  —  but  that  could  have  nuide  no 
difference,"  he  ad(h'd,  hopelessly.  "If  she  ever  could 
love  me,  she  would  not  l)e  so  decided  in  her  refusal.  She 
would  give  mo  some  hope.  I  have  been  indiscreet  in 
showing  her  my  heart.  It  would  have  been  better  to 
suffer  in  silence.  1  have  been  a  conceited  idiot  to  think 
myself  worthy  of  her." 

"  I  can't  agree  witii  you,  my  dear  I'aul ;  you  are  worthy 
of  the  best,  Now,  pray  don't  lose  your  self-respect  be- 
cause a  wonuin  is  beautiful  and  capricious." 

"  She  is  not  capricious.  It  is  her  conviction  that  she 
must  never  nuirry ;  that  some  other  destiny  is  marked 
out  for  her,  —  something  ideal  and  spiritual." 

"  Her  lovely  head  is  full  of  heavenly  images.  She 
has  personated  saints  and  angels  so  long  that  she  has 
become  imbued  with  the  celestial  spirit.  It  has  become 
part  of  her  nature.  If  she  could  bo  disenchanted  with 
this  artistic  life,  and  interested  in  something  more  natural 
and  womanly,  she  would  be  perfect." 

"  She  is  divinely  perfect  as  she  is.  Alas  !  too  perfect 
for  such  an  earthly  nature  as  mine.  I  must  look  at  it 
in  that  way,  intellectually,  spiritually.  I  must  tear  her 
image  from  my  heart,  and  tL\ink  of  her  as  I  do  of  the 
Madonna  and  saints  I  have  been  taught  to  worship,  — 


4 


liWlM '      ll 


J^ 


TSSBSSSM 


216 


TIIK   STOUY   OP   AN    KNTHUSIAST. 


as  a  celestial  vision,  an  ethereal  creation  beyond  earthly 
hope  and  passion." 

"  And  you  will  be  the  better  for  having  loved  her  even 
if  it  is  not  returned,"  I  said,  trying  to  offer  what  J  knew 
was  but  meagre  consolation.  "  Slie  will  always  be  an  in- 
si)iratiou  to  you,  to  help  you  to  the  highest  and  best  in 

art." 

"  Do  you  think  one  can  do  liis  best  when  his  heart  is 
ill  at  ease,  when  he  is  brooding  over  a  misplaced  love,  a 
hopeless  passion.  It  seems  to  me  now  that  I  can  never 
do  anything  good  again.  In  fact,  my  enthusiasm  has 
had  a  check  that  I  shall  not  soon  recover  from.  I  feel 
like  hiding  myself  in  some  secluded  spot  away  from  all 
that  pertains  to  art." 

"  Oh,  my  friend,  this  is  unworthy  of  you.  You  will 
paint  the  better  for  this  disappointment ;  and  I  might 
deluge  you  with  trite  sayings  about  crushed  flowers  exhal- 
ing a  sweeter  perfume,  and  so  on.  If  I  remember  rightly, 
it  was  you  who  once  said  that  '  he  who  has  not  suffered 
does  not  believe.' " 

"  Ah,  yes ;  that  was  in  theory  and  sounded  well.  You 
can't  judge  of  the  matter,  you  who  are  happy  in  your 
love,  and  prosperous  in  every  way." 

"  Now,  my  dear  Taul,  you  are  morbid.  Whom  have 
we  all  envied  of  late  ?  Who  is  our  genius  2}ar  excellence? 
Who  has  just  sold  a  picture  to  Russia  for  a  fabulously 
large  sum  ?  Who  is  getting  rich  and  famous  at  one 
stride  ?  Is  not  your  prosperity  of  the  noblest.  Is  it  not 
success  to  be  proud  of.  My  dear  boy,  let  me  be  your 
mentor ;  let  me  preach  a  little.  You  have  not  a  weak 
heart,  a  feeble  nature.  Shake  off  this  despondency,  and 
go  straight  on  and  up.  Who  knows  what  God  may  give 
you  at  last  ?     Let  me  tell  you  that  the  truest  happiness 


L^^'ife 


lAST. 

beyond  earthly 

loved  her  even 
or  what  J  knew 
dways  be  an  in- 
lest  and  best  in 

hen  his  heart  is 
lisplaced  love,  a 
;hat  I  can  never 
enthusiasm  has 
IV  from.  I  feel 
away  from  all 

you.  You  will 
t;  and  I  might 
;d  flowers  exhal- 
member  rightly, 
las  not  suffered 

ided  well.  You 
I  happy  in  your 

d.  Whom  hav6 
s  i^ttr  excellence  ? 
for  a  fabulously 

famous  at  one 
loblest.   Is  it  not 

let  me  be  your 
have  not  a  weak 
lespondency,  and 
at  God  may  give 
truest  happiness 


LA  SANTA. 


217 


is  found  in  renunciiation.  Make  it  your  religion  to  re- 
nounce this  idol  instead  of  worshipping  her,  and  strive 
to  do  the  duty  that  lies  nearest  to  you.  Work  for  time 
and  posterity.  Do  not  falter,  I  praj  you.  You  are  not 
tlie  one  to  tall  by  the  way,  to  be  trodden  under  the  feet 
of  those  who  pass  over  you.  But  I  have  said  enough !  I 
am  sure  of  you  ;  I  know  you  will  do  what  is  right." 

"  I  will  try,"  returned  I'aul,  with  a  gleam  of  his  old 
resolution.  "  One  muxf  live  and  struggle  on  whether 
his  heart  aches  or  not,  and  there  is  certainly  a  great 
consolation  in  work.  I  must  think  only  of  my  career, 
I  should  not  like  to  disappoint  M.  Ingres  and  all  my 
friends,  because  a  woman  whom  I  love  does  not  love  me. 
.  Mon  Dieit  !  how  horribly  I  have  been  hindering  you, 
and  T  have  a  model  waiting." 

"  Not  La  Santa  ?  "  I  ventured. 

"  Oh,  no,  or  I  should  not  be  here.". 

Wlien  he  reached  the  door,  he  turned  back  and  said, 
severely,  "Don't  send  that  tiling  to  England.  It  is  not 
the  truth.  It  is  a  travesty  of  her  face,  and  does  neither 
her  nor  you  credit.  You  had  better  burn  it ;  "  and  with- 
out another  word  he  marched  out,  and  I  heard  him  clat- 
tering rapidly  down  the  stone  stairs. 

VIII. 

This  summer  has  passed  away  like  an  Arcadian  idyl, 
happily,  peacefully,  with  congenial  work,  charming 
friends,  merry  little  excursions  into  the  environs,  or 
hours  of  dreamy  idleness  stretched  at  length  on  the 
greensward,  under  the  giant  trees  in  the  Villa  Borghese. 
Only  he  who  has  spent  a  summer  in  Rome  can  fully 
understand  what  a  boon,  as  well  as  a  delight,  that  beau- 


218 


THE   STORY   OF   AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


tiful  park  is.  Tlicre,  in  the  languid  afternoon,  when 
tlie  slanting  sunbeams  sift  a  golden  dust  among  the 
thick  shadows,  one  can  lie  amid  fragrant  grasses,  on  beds 
of  wild-Howers,  and  study  the  matchless  blue  of  the  sky, 
or  gaze  at  far-off  pictures  of  purple  hills  and  long  undu- 
lating lines  of  country,  with  clumps  of  blue-black  pines 
and  masses  of  ancient  ruins,  that  give  touches  of  ruddy 
color  to  the  otherwise  sombre  landscape. 

In  the  open  glades,  groups  of  children  wander  about 
gathering  flowers  and  grasses,  or  play  merry  games,  with 
much  calling  in  sweet,  clear  voices,  mingled  with  tinkling 
laughter.  Young  men  and  maids  join  in  pastoral  sports 
in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  or  dance  the  salterello  to 
the  strumming  of  a  guitar  or  the  whir  of  a  tam- 
bourine. 

Within  sight  and  sound  of  the  great  busy  city,  one  can 
enjoy  all  the  charms  of  a  rural  festival,  as  well  as  see 
the  Roman  population  at  its  best,  and  free  from  the 
restraint  imposed  upon  it  by  the  thousands  of  strangers 
that  throng  every  thoroughfare  during  the  other  months 
of  the  year. 

What  charming  sketches  I  have  made  of  the  most 
exquisite  groups!  What  movement,  what  expression, 
what  coloring  in  this  bewitching  light!  I  am  enchanted 
with  Rome.  There  is  no  other  spot  on  earth  I  should 
prefer  for  my  home.  With  Dorethea  for  my  compaiuon 
and  painting  for  my  occupation,  the  days  would  glide 
along  blissfully. 

And  I  have  promised  to  live  in  England,  cold,  dull, 
narrow  England,  at  Markland  Place,  overlooking  miles  of 
dreary  moorland.  Sometimes  I  am  appalled  at  the  pros- 
pect. How  can  I  ever  give  up  this  life  of  poetry  and 
art  ?     Here  I  breathe  the  spirit  of  beauty  and  freedom  ; 


LA  SANTA. 


219 


noon,  when 
among  the 
ises,  on  beds 
of  the  sky, 
long  undu- 
black  pines 
3S  of  ruddy 

inder  about 
games,  with 
ith  tinkling 
toral  sports 
lalterello  to 
of    a    tam- 

3ity,  one  can 
well  as  see 
B  from  the 
3f  strangers 
;her  mouths 

f  the  most 
expression, 
1  enchanted 
th  I  should 
'  companion 
would  glide 

\,  cold,  dull, 
[ing  miles  of 
at  the  pros- 
poetry  and 
ad  freedom ; 


which  way  soever  I  turn  I  see  pictures,  I  hear  music  and 
poetry,  the  wind  is  melody,  the  sky  is  paint(?d  in  ravish- 
ing tints,  and  the  children  of  this  favored  hind  are  living, 
breathing  poems.  There,  all  is  stern,  real,  and  practical, 
a  proud  reverence  for  wealth  and  family,  a  severely 
regular  and  proper  existence,  with  never  a  touch  of 
natural  feeling  or  a  lapse  into  Boheniianism  even  for  an 
hour. 

•  •  •  •  • 

I  have  been  reading  over  for  the  twentieth  time  one 
of  Dorethca's  letters.  How  sweet  and  kind  they  are, 
but  here  and  there  I  notice  the  salient  points  of  her 
moral  and  mental  training.  She  is  slightly  shocked  at 
some  of  the  harmless  escapades  I  describe  to  her.  "  Is 
it  safe  to  wander  off  alone  across  the  Carapagna  ?  Am 
I  not  afraid  of  brigands  ?  Is  there  not  danger  of  fever 
from  these  out-door  festivals  at  night  ?  Is  it  possible 
that  ladies  promenade  on  the  Corso  in  the  evening  with- 
out their  hats  ?  And  am  I  sure  that  1  am  not  losing  my 
resi)ect  for  the  Protestant  Church  by  attending  tlie  relig- 
ious ceremonies  so  often  ?  Am  I  sure  that  I  only  care 
for  the  music,  and  am  not  becoming  gradually  impressed 
with  the  splendor  and  pomp  of  the  Romish  Church  ? 

Dear  child,  her  simple  nature  cannot  grasp  all  the  cir- 
cumstances and  surroundings  of  such  r„  life  as  this.  She 
sees  everything  through  a  diiferent  medium.  Wiiat 
happiness  it  will  be  to  enlarge  her  ideas  of  the  world 
and  to  broaden  her  views  of  social  intercourse !  There  is 
one  thing  I  notice  in  her  letters  which  gratifies  me 
greatly,  and  that  is  her  increased  interest  in  all  that 
pertains  to  art,  and  her  intelligent  remarks  about  pict- 
ures. This  development  may  be  due  to  her  father's 
position  as  well  as  her  love  for  me.     She  admires  her 


'^SJGH 


220 


THE   STOIIY   OF  AN   KNTHUSIAST. 


lathor,  and  has  the  greatest  reverence  for  his  opinions, 
and  ti'uici'  he  became  director  of  the  new  London  gallery 
he  has  taken  a  wonderful  interest  in  art,  and  is  consid- 
ered a  connoisseur  of  no  mean  merit. 

Dorethea  speaks  often  of   a  Count  von  Hardenburg, 
an  intimate  friend  of  her  father,  and  a  constant  visitor 
both  in  London  and  at  Hardmoor  Hall,  who,  she  says, 
is  an  authority  on   pictures,  and  an   amateur   painter^ 
scidptor,  and  musician  of  uncommon  talent  —  in  fact,  a 
universal   genius.     I   suppose  he   is  some  broken-down 
old  German  noble,  with  the  wide  knowledge  that  seems 
a  natural  inheritance  of  the  race.     Evidently  he  has  done 
something  toward  improving  my  Doretliea's  mind,  for  at 
times  she  talks  very  learnedly  of  the  higlrer  philosophies 
as  well  as  the  higher  arts.     1  can  see  that  she  has  bound- 
less confidence  in  my  future,  and  wishes  to  make  herself 
a  worthy  companion  for  one  she    considers  so   clever. 
Sweet  soul,  I  hope  I  shall  never  disappoint  her.     I  still 
have  so  much  to  learn  and  so  much  to  do,  and  withal  I 
doubt  if  I  shall  ever  be  really  great  in  my  profession. 
When  I  look  at  Camille's  remarkable  pictures  and  Fayl's 
noble  compositions,  1  feel  a  mere  dabbler.     However,  my 
heart  is  in  my  work,  and  M.  Ingres  tells  us  often  that 
perseverance  and  real  love   will  lead   to  the   loftiest 
results. 


li 
n 

s 
ti 

'I 

li 

ii 
s 
t 

h 
t 
V 

0 
V 

b 

V 

(I 

I 

s 
a 


I  have  just  returned  from  my  evening  walk  in  the 
Villa,  where,  much  to  my  delight,  I  met  Madam  Ray- 
mond. She  and  Angelique,  have  been  with  the  Brents, 
on  a  villcgiutiim  of  some  weeks,  and  have  only  just  re- 
turned. I  came  upon  her  quite  unexpectedly ;  she  was 
sitting  on  a  bench  with  Mrs.  Brent,  Avhile  Angelique  and 
Laura  sauntered  Qver  the  grass  gathering  daisies  and 


1. 


*iff?!^^t^^it^  ■ 


3  opinions, 
ion  gallery 
I  is  consid- 

lardenburg, 
tant  visitor 
o,  she  says, 
111-   painter 
—  in  fact,  a 
iioken-down 
that  seems 
he  has  done 
mind,  for  at 
philosophies 
B  has  bound- 
aake  herself 
3  so  clever, 
her.     I  still 
nd  withal  I 
f  profession. 
s  and  Paul's 
lowever,  my 
i  often  that 
the   loftiest 


walk  in  the 
kladain  K.ay- 
the  Brents, 
only  just  re- 
\\y ;  she  was 
ngelique  and 
■  daisies  and 


-^-,J 


L.\   SANTA. 


221 


('aiu[ianiila,  wliich  ard  already  a  little  faded  by  the  first 
breath  of  autumn.  1  am  .sure  slie  shared  my  joy  at 
meeting,  for  her  face  lighted  up  with  a  beautiful  expres- 
sion of  welcome ;  and  Angeliipie  and  Miss  lirent  has- 
tened to  greet  me. 

I  never  noticed  before  how  really  pretty  Laura  is. 
The  summer's  lieat  and  languor  have  softened  and  re- 
lined  her  too  robust  cliarms,  and  her  eyes  are  like  violets 
in  spring.  TJefore  1  had  fairly  ex[)ressed  my  pleasufet  at 
seeing  them,  Paul  sauntered  up,  and  from  another  direc- 
tion Caniille  a]>peared. 

"  I  was  drawn  to  this  part  of  the  Villa  by  an  irresisti- 
ble influence,"  he  said,  as  he  shook  hands.  "  I  tried  to 
turn  the  other  way,  but  something  told  me  that  a  great 
pleasure  awaited  me  if  1  followed  this  winding  path." 

"  And  I,  too,"  said  Paul,  "  was  brought  here  by  some 
other  volition  than  my  own.  I  started  for  the  Pincio, 
where  I  promised  to  meet  M.  Ingres  and  Madam ;  and 
before  I  was  aware  of  it,  I  had  entered  the  gate  of  the 
villa,  and  was  far  on  niy  way  to  a  delightful  surprise." 

"  It  is  a  remarkable  coincidence,"  laughed  Mrs.  Brent ; 
"  but  the  most  astonishing  part  of  it  is  that  Madam 
llaymond  and  I  were  just  talking  of  you.  After  this,  I 
shall  be  a  firm  believer  in  the  old  adage:  'Talk  of 
angels  and  you  will  hear  their  wings.'  " 

"  I  have  heard  a  different  quotation,  with  a  moral  not 
quite  so  flattering  to  us,"  rejoined  Camille,  while  his 
eyes  rested  with  undisguised  pleasure  on  the  beaming 
face  of  Angeliqiie. 

"  I  am  sure  your  villegiatura  has  benefited  you  greatly. 
Mile.  Angelique  looks  in  radiant  health,"  said  Paul,  with 
a  shy  glance;  "and  Miss  Brent  seems  to  have  been 
drinking  immoderately  of  the  fountain  of  beauty." 


1 


«P 


.ip)m|ii,»m.iWjif;» 


222 


THE    STORY   OF   AN    ENTHUSIAST. 


"Oh,  M,  Fahrion,  have  you  been  ever  since  we  went 
away  composing  a  sonnet  to  our  charms  ?  Thanks,  it  is 
very  sweet.  Here  is  your  reward  "  ;  and  the  merry  girl 
offered  him  a  bunch  of  daisies,  with  mock  gravity. 

Ho  took  them  with  a  i)lc:ised  smile  and  a  little  depre- 
cating glanc(!at  Angclique,  pressed  them  to  his  lips,  and 
laid  them  on  his  lieart,  with  an  affected  sentimental 
sigh. 

We  all  laughed  heartily  ;  any  frivolity  in  our  serious, 
self-contained  friend  was  very  rare;  after  a  little  more 
light  banter,  I  seated  myself  near  the  two  ladies,  while 
Camille  and  Angelique  walked  slowly  away,  in  earnest 
conversation.  Paul  and  Laura  found  a  seat  at  a  little 
distance,  and,  from  the  girl's  merry  laughter,  I  judged 
that  our  sedate  friend  could  be  very  amusing  when 
there  was  some  one  to  call  out  the  latent  humor  in  his 
character. 

Lookiug  at  them,  I  thought  how  much  happier  he 
would  be  if  he  could  love  such  a  bright,  warm-hearted 
girl,  instead  of  wasting  his  youth  on  a  hopeless  attach- 
ment. Since  the  day  of  our  conversation  in  my  studio, 
he  has  made  no  sign.  If  he  is  unhappy,  he  conceals  it 
well,  and  works  constantly  with  an  almost  savage  energy. 
He  has  accomplished  more  than  any  of  us,  and  M.  Ingres 
is  very  proud  of  him,  and  sings  his  praises  constantly, 
but  always  adds  :  "  Strong  as  he  is,  he  has  not  the  brill- 
iant genius  of  Camille.  There  is  a  fire,  a  spirit  in  his 
work  that  none  of  you  others  have." 

The  sun  was  getting  low,  and  Madam  Eaymond 
looked  often  in  the  direction  where  Camille  and  Ange- 
lique  had  disappeared.  "  The  gates  will  be  closed  soon. 
What  can  the  child  be  thinking  of  ?  "  she  said,  uneasily. 

*'  You  know  Cauiille  is  very  entertaining,"  I  replied. 


nsiAST. 

^er  since  we  went 
>s  ?  Thanks,  it  is 
nd  tlie  merry  girl 
ock  gravity, 
[ind  a  little  depre- 
(ni  to  his  lips,  and 
jcted   sentimental 

lity  in  our  serious, 
fter  a  little  more 
I  two  ladies,  while 
away,  in  earnest 
a  seat  at  a  little 
lughter,  I  judged 
y  amusing  when 
;ent  humor  in  his 

much  happier  he 
;;ht,  warm-hearted 
a  hopeless  attach- 
tion  in  my  studio, 
py,  he  conceals  it 
)st  savage  energy, 
us,  and  M.  Ingres 
raises  constantly, 
has  not  the  brill- 
re,  a  spirit  in  his 

^adam  Eaymond 
lamille  and  Ange- 
.11  be  closed  soon. 
f?he  said,  uneasily, 
lining,"  I  replied. 


^ffmtm^miff^ 


I. A   SANTA. 


223 


by  way  of  excuse;  "one  is  apt  to  forget  the  flight  of 
time  while  listening  to  him." 

"If  they  do  not  appear  soon,  I  must  go  in  search  of 
them,"  she  said,  evidently  greatly  aiuioyed.  "  The  dew 
is  already  falling,  and  Angelique  takes  cold  from  the 
least  exposure." 

Presently  thoy  came  in  sighfc,*walking  slowly  and 
silently;  Angt'-liipie's  face  looked  like  a  little  clear  pool 
slightly  rufHed  by  a  summer  breeze ;  wliile  Camille's 
eyes  rested  ou  her  with  bitter  disappointment. 

"  Angeliciue,"  cried  her  mother,  "how  could  you  re- 
main so  long  ?  It  is  nearly  dark ;  how  could  you  forget 
yourself  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  forget,  mama.  I  knew  we  were  gone  too 
far,  but  I  was  saying  something  very  important  to  M.  de 
Brecourt,  and  I  could  not  return  any  sooner." 

C.amille  winced,  but  made  no  remark,  and  we  all 
turned  toward  the  gate,  Angelique  walking  with  me,  and 
the  others  following  in  a  group. 

For  a  few  moments,  we  were  silent ;  then  the  girl 
raised  her  trustful  eyes  to  my  face,  and  said,  gravely  : 
"  M.  Felix,  I  can  always  talk  to  you,  because  you  are 
really  my  friend,  and  you  understand  me  better  than 
any  one  else.  Tell  me,  please,  do  you  think  it  would  be 
well  to  do  a  thing  that  one  feels  is  wrong,  just  for  the 
sake  of  doing  good  to  another  ?  " 

"  From  a  Jesuitical  point  of  view,  it  might,"  I  replied; 
"but  from  a  moral  point  of  view,  I  should  say  it  were 
better  never  to  do  wrong  that  good  might  result." 

"  Even  if  it  should  be  for  the  salvation  of  a  human 
soul,  even  if  it  should  save  a  —  a  person  from  eternal 
ruin  ?  "  She  hesitated  in  her  trouble,  and  looked  at  me 
imploringly,  as  if  she  thought  I  might  find  some  solution 
to  her  problem. 


' 


824 


TIIK   STOIty   OP   AN    KNTIIUSIAST. 


"  My  dear  Aiigolirjuo,  no  one  has  a  right  to  expect  •sal- 
vation from  another;  no  one  lias  a  right  to  put  any 
human  soul  in  such  a  position  as  to  make  it.  necessary 
to  decide  a  question  of  such  importance." 

"Oh,  I  understand  that  clearly;  no  one  should  be 
forced  into  siich  an  attitude  toward  another,  by  any 
exterior  intluence;  but  suppose  one  saw  one's  self  that 
he  could  do  another  a  great  good,  and,  in  order  to,  should 
do  violence  to  his  own  conscience,  should  sacritice  his 
own  convictions,  should  you  say  it  were  best  t(;  make 
the  sacrifice  ?  " 

"  Never !  "  I  replied,  decidedly.  '•  We  may  with  impu- 
nity sacrifice  our  tastes,  our  sentiments,  our  worldly  in- 
terests, but  our  moral  rectitude  never  !  " 

"And  if  one  should  make  the  .sacrifice  and  renounce 
all,"  she  continued,  earnestly,  "one  could  never  be  <iuite 
sure  that  the  other  would  really  be  saved  by  it.  I  some- 
times think  our  influence  does  not  go  as  far  as  we  suppose. 
I  doubt  if  a  human  being  can  do  God's  work.  It  would 
look  like  presumption  to  attempt  it." 

"  It  would  be  more  in  accordance  with  the  intention 
of  our  Creator  if  one  should  endeavor  to  save  himself, 
instead  of  tryijig  to  shift  the  responsibility  to  some  one 
else,"  I  replied,  unhesitatingly. 

"  I  look  at  it  in  that  way  too,  at  times,"  she  said ;  "  but 
suppose  one  made  a  mistake  and  the  other  should  be 
ruined,  lost,  by  that  mistake,  would  not  one  be  guilty  of 
neglecting  a  solemn  duty  ?  Oh,  I  wish  I  knew  just  what 
was  right." 

"My  dear  little  friend,"  I  exclaimed,  almost  impa- 
tiently, "don't  distress  yourself  by  trying  to  decide  such 
a  knotty  question.  Pardon  me  if  I  am  indiscreet,  but  I 
am  your  friend  from  the  depths  of  iny  soul  — I  love  you 


U3IAST. 

'i^lit  to  oxpect  h;i1- 
liylit  to  put  any 
make  it.  necessary 
je." 

no  one  should  be 
.  anotlier,  by  any 
aw  ont''s  st'ir  that 
in  onh'r  to,  should 
louhl  sacritiee  hiH 
,'ere  best  to  make 

Ve  may  with  im pu- 
tts, our  worldly  in- 

ifiee  and  renounce 
)uld  never  be  quite 
ved  by  it.  I  some- 
i  far  as  we  suppose, 
's  work.     It  would 

with  the  intention 
r  to  save  himself, 
bility  to  some  one 

es,"  she  said ;  •'  but 
le  other  should  be 
lot  one  be  guilty  of 
h  I  knew  just  what 

imed,  almost  impa- 
ying  to  decide  such 
im  indiscreet,  but  I 
f  soul  —  I  love  you 


Wxiaim 


LA   RANTA. 


oo: 


as  if  you  were  my  sister,  and  T  understand  your  moral 
dilemma.  I  am  anj^vy  at  Caiiiillc,  wiio,  I  know,  is  tiie 
subject  of  your  sju'culations.  lie  should  not  try  to  win 
your  love  so  unfairly.  Let  Iiim  niake  himself  worthy  of 
you  first.  Wiiy  should  a  man  be  so  nnjust  as  to  exp(!ct 
a  woman  to  save  him  because  she  is  better  than  he  ?  He 
sliould  know  that  if  you  love  him  y«m  will  take  him  as 
lu>  is,  and  try  to  make  him  better.  It  seems  like  coer- 
cion to  attempt  to  win  you  in  that  way." 

"You  must  not  blame  M.  de  Hreoourt.  He  has  been 
very  unhappy.  I  have  never  asketl  the  cause  of  liis  trou- 
ble, but  I  think  he  has  been  greatly  disappointed,  great- 
ly deceived ;  consequently,  he  ha.s  not  much  confidence 
in  human  affection.  I  am  sure  he  tliinks  my  spiritual 
convictions  but  the  ith'al  fancies  of  a  young  girl.  I  can- 
not make  him  look  at  it  as  I  wish  him  to.  He  does  not 
in  the  least  understand  my  true  character.  If  now  I  am 
an  enigma  to  him,  if  he  cannot  look  into  my  soul  and 
see  what  is  there,  will  he  be  able  to  read  me  more  clear- 
ly should  I  return  his  love  ?  '* 

"He  would  never  try.  He  would  be  satisfied  to  have 
you  as  you  are  outwardly,  and  the  hidden  mysteries  of 
your  sonl  would  remain  mysteries  to  him  always." 

Tears  started  to  her  eyes,  and  she  said,  almost  hum- 
bly, "  I  think  you  are  right.  I  know  I  must  never  prom- 
ise to  love  any  one  in  an  earthly  way.  I  am  not  like 
otiiers.  I  cannot  give  up  my  spiritual  life,  my  mystical 
reveries,  my  ideal  existence,  my  religious  ecstasies — ah, 
no !  They  are  a  part  of  me,  and  my  soul  would  have  no 
fellowship  with  the  one  I  loved  ;  it  would  sit  lamenting 
alone;  we  would  be  united  and  yet  divided.  Such  an  ex- 
istence would  be  a  falsehood,  a  double  falsehood,  and  I 
should  die  of  shame  and  sorrow." 


i 


-miVumm'. 


226 


THE  STORY  OF  AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


We  liacl  reached  the  gate,  the  others  of  the  party  were 
near  U9,  and  I  had  only  time  to  say,  "  I  beg  that  you 
will  not  make  yourself  raisera\)le  thinking  of  this,  lie- 
main  your  own  sweet  self.  Do  what  you  know  to  be 
right,  and  leave  the  rest  to  God." 

She  raised  her  beautiful  eyes  with  a  grateful  look, 
but  made  no  reply. 

Late  that  same  evening,  Paul  and  T  dropped  into  tlu- 
Greco  for  a  bite  of  supper,  and  there  we  found  CaimlU; 
surrounded  by  a  numb.'r  of  the  wildest  and  noisiest  ol 
\\xo.  penshnnaires,  as  well  as  several  German  and  Italian 
iirtists.  They  were  drinking  wine  and  playing  at  domi- 
noes, while  the  frequent  bursts  of  uproarious  laughter 
told  that  CamiUe,  who  was  the  speaker,  was  unusually 
amusing,  and  that  his  wit  was  not  of  the  most  refined 
qutdity.  His  face  was  flushed,  and  his  eyes  were  red 
and  restless.  He  drank  freely  and  laughed  loudly,  and 
his  whole  manner  was  careless  and  reckless,  as  though 
he  were  trying  to  drown  his  better  nature,  and  drive 
away  intrusive  thoughts  by  unholy  mirth  and  degrading 

°"  Unhappy  man  !  Where  will  it  end  ?  "  I  said  gloom- 
ily to  Paul  as  we  came  away  and  left  him  to  his  heart- 
less mirth,  which  sounded  to  me  like  the  crackling  of 
thorns  in  a  consuming  fire. 


Looking  over  my  journal,  1  see  that  in  order  to  keep 
it  within  reasonable  limits  I  must  omit  many  little  inci- 
dents that  are  of  great  int.aest  to  me,  but  as  they  have 
no  direct  connection  with  my  story  I  will  pass  them  by 


SIAST. 

[)f  the  party  were 
'  I  bpg  that  you 
ing  of  this.  Uc- 
you  know  to  be 

a  grateful  look, 


dropped  into  thf 
,-0  found  CuniilU; 
t  and  noisiest  of 
rnian  and  Italian 
,  playing  at  donii- 
roarious  laughter 
er,  was  unusually 
the  most  refined 
liis  eyes  were  red 
ighed  loudly,  and 
ckless,  as  though 
nature,  and  drive 
rth  and  degrading 

I  ?  "  I  said  gloom- 

him  to  his  heart- 

the  crackling  of 


t  in  order  to  keep 
it  many  little  inci- 
,  but  as  they  have 
will  pass  them  by 


LA   SANTA. 


227 


mill  glance  brielly  over  the  events  of  importaneo  tliat 
luive  occurred  during  the  hist  year. 

At  the  Villa  Medici,  every  tiling  is  now  going  on  in  the 
iisua,!  routine.  Our  dear  master  is  again  in  good  health, 
iiltcr  a  long  and  serious  illness,  through  wliicih  he  was 
nursed  with  the  greatest  devotion  by  l'aul,\vh(»  tilled  the 
]>lace  of  a  son  in  that  time  of  troul)le.  And  I'aul  was  not 
the  only  one  who  showed  the  deej)est  alfeetion  and  in- 
terest ;  every  student  in  the  Academy  was  anxious  to 
do  something  for  the  dear  master,  who  has  gained  the 
love  of  all  by  his  kindly  nattire  and  patient,  faithful  ef- 
forts for  the  welfare  of  those  entrusted  to  his  care. 

In  Paul  he  has  a  never-failing  source  of  happiness. 
Mis  ambition  is  gratified  through  him,  for  his  pictures 
tliat  went  to  Paris  this  year  created  quite  a  furor  at  the 
Salon.  1  had  a  letter  from  ^l.  i\richelet,  which  the  mas- 
ter read  with  great  pride,  in  which  that  Nestor  of  art  pro- 
nounced favoral)ly  on  Paul's  pictures.  Even  more  —  he 
added  that  his  young  friend  was  the  greatest  painter  of 
the  day,  with  the  exception  of  his  master. 

Of  Camille's  Saint  Elizabeth  lie  said  but  a  few  words, 
and  they  were  expressive.  Tlie  work  of  a  brilliant  ge- 
nius marred  by  prosperity.  As  to  mine,  he  damned  me 
with  faint  praise,  and  observed  that  my  mission  was  to 
lind  a  picture  nistead  of  making  one.  I  feel  this  mild 
reproach  keenly.  Instead  of  passing  my  time  in  this 
agreeable  study  of  art,  I  should  have  been  searching  the 
•vorld  over  for  that  picture  of  inestimable  value  which  is 
hidden  .somewhere  from  the  eyes  of  the  world.  But,  pa- 
tience, M.  Michelet!  you  shall  have  your  revenge;  for  I 
mean  soon  to  set  out  on  my  pilgrimage,  and  I  feel  that  I 
shall  be  successful. 

Then  I  shall  return  to  England,  marry  my  Dorothea, 


228 


THE   STOHY   OF   AN   KNTIIlTSIAST. 


anil  paint  pietnrcs  for  the  IJiitiHh  \mh\\v,  wliiilv  is  more 
iii(lniK'<'nt.  1111(1  It'Hs  (u-iticiil  tliiin  the  Kiimu-Ii.  However,  I 
do  not  nu'iin  to  siiy  tliat  tlic  iiictiiri'  I  sent  to  the 
Siilon  dill  not  ri'ceivi'  t'liir  trciitmcnt.  It  wiis  wcdl  linnj: 
and  reasonably  well  noticed.  Kortnnatoly  for  nic,  as 
well  as  others,  M.  Miolielet  is  not  tlie  sole  jndj,'e ;  and  as 
toCaniille,  I  tliink  M.  Miidielet  unjustly  prt\iudieed.  His 
Siiint  Kli/aheth  of  IhuiKary  is  an  uni'i'«iiinon  pietnre. 
Our  master  pronounced  it  a  veritable  outburst  of  geni\is. 
I  know  it  was  painted  at  a  time  of  f,'reat  mental  exeitc- 
mcnt,  which  is  not  always  eondneivo  to  harmonious  re- 
sults, but  La  Santa  was  the  model,  and  the  tignre  of 
Saint  Klizabeth  is  really  sublinu-.  The  other  iigures 
(men!  accessories),  I  dare  say,  were  faulty ;  but  they 
should  not  be  considered  seriously,  as  all  the  interest 
should  centre  on  the  prominent  subject  of  the  c  mposi- 
tion. 

However,  unhappily  for  my  poor  friend,  he  was  not 
in  a  condition  to  be  deeply  atfeetod  either  by  praise  or 
blame,  for,  at  the  time  his  picture  was  exhibited,  he  was 
at  the  sick-bed  of  his  father,  whose  death  was  a  sudden 
and  severe  blow  to' him.  He  remained  with  his  family 
for  several  months,  and  when  he  returned,  a  few  weeks 
ago,  beseemed  much  changed,  and  greatly  subdued.  He 
has  lost  that  indifferent,  reckless  manner  whicdi  grieved 
us  so  deeply  before  his  departure,  and  he  jjasses  his 
days  working  diligently  in  his  stydio,  and  his  evenings 
either  at  the  Villa  Medici,  or  in  ]\Iadam  Itiymond's 
charming  little  salon  in  the  Capo  le  Case. 

He  is  still  devoted  to  Angelique,  and  seems  to  under- 
stand at  last  that  he  must  make  himself  worthy  if  he 
ever  hopes  to  win  her.  Sometimes  he  talks  sadly  and 
hopelessly  of  his  future,  and   regrets   bitterly    the  in- 


I 


'a  I A  ST. 

c,  wliii'h  is  Jiiurc 
iii^li.  Howfvi'f,  1 
ri'  I  Kfiit  to  till' 
It  WHS  witU  limij: 
;iti'ly  lor  me,  an 
)ltf  jiiil^'i",  iuul  as 
/  prt^juilicinl.  His 
icciiiiiiioii  pictiii'i'. 
iitlmist  of  gi'iiiiis. 
iit  nu'iitiil  cxiMto- 
i)  li;iriiH)ni()us  re- 
iiid  the  tiguri!  of 
'lie  other  figuivs 
faulty ;  but  they 
all  tlio  intcrt'st 
L  of  the  c   miiusi- 

■iend,  hi;  Wiis  not 
ithor  by  praise  or 
exhibited,  he  was 
■ath  was  a  sudden 
id  with  his  family 
•ned,  a  few  weeks 
,tly  subdued,  lie 
ler  wliieh  grieved 
ud  lie  })a83es  his 
and  his  evenings 
ad  am  liayniond's 
Case. 

d  seems  to  nnder- 
iself  worthy  if  he 
e  talks  sadly  and 
3   bitterly    the  iu- 


TiA   nAKTA. 


220 


heritance  whieh  he  forfeited  by  his  insane  prodigality 
in  I'aris. 

"I  have  nothing  to  look  forward  to  now  but  labor, 
eonstant  lal)or,"  he  said,  ilejectodly,  •'  unless  my  elder 
brother  chooses  to  allow  me  a  pension.  I  have  no  right 
to  expect  it,  but  my  mother  may  urge  it.  My  dear  motli- 
er,  she  still  loves  her  bhudc  sheep,  and  cannot  Ihi  recon- 
ciled to  the  fact  of  my  earning  a  subsistence  by  so  preca. 
rious  a  calling.  As  for  marrying,  that  is  out  of  the 
question  now.  While  my  father  lived  I  was  sure  of  an 
income,  but  I  cannot  expect  my  brother  to  1)0  so  generous." 

"  Only  apply  yourself,  h(>art  and  soul,  to  your  pro- 
fession, and,  with  your  talent,  you  will  soon  be  inde- 
pendent, and  Angelique  will  be  your  reward,"  I  said, 
hopefully. 

"Work,  work,  that  is  my  only  salvation  now";  and 
with  a  sad  smile  he  hurried  away  to  his  studio. 

Paul  goes  on  his  upward  way  serenely,  steadily,  like  a 
mounting  star.  If  he  is  uidiappy  he  makes  no  sign.  I 
think  his  passion  for  Angelique  is  fast  merging  into  a 
spiritual  and  intellectual  attachment.  He  still  adores 
her,  but  with  the  reverence  one  shows  toward  his  patron 
saint  or  the  religion  he  professes.  She  is  his  religion 
and  his  inspiration,  and  every  picture  he  paints  bears 
the  stamp  of  her  influence.  He  is  also  much  with  the 
Brents,  and  Laura  and  he  understand  each  other  per- 
fectly. She  brings  out  the  sunny  part  of  his  natiire,  as 
Angelique  does  the  spiritual  and  reverential.  I  should 
not  wonder  if  they  learn  to  love  each  other,  which  is 
a  consummation  devoutly  to  be  wished.  Vaid  will  find  in 
a  matter-of-fact  woman  like  Laura  the  needed  comple- 
ment to  make  his  life  perfect.  He  is  too  much  of  a 
dreamer,  and  if  left  to  himself  lie  bids  fair  to  become  a 


-.H'.-M.iW-^W.gili*', .''.',■.' 


230 


THE    8TOUY   OF   AN    KNTHIT8IAST. 


recluse,  a  devotee  to  religious  art.  His  noble  takuts 
should  have  the  widest  scope.  lie  slioidd  paint  grand, 
heroic  pictures,  should  aspire  to  something  sublime  ;  but 
—  710US  i^errons. 

With  the  exception  of  the  picture  I  sent  to  the  Salon, 
all  my  work  has  gone  to  England  and  has  been  enthusi- 
astically received  there.  How  strange  that  the  country 
with  which  I  have  the  least  affinity  should  appreciate 
me  beyond  my  deserts.  It  may  be  due  in  a  measure  to 
Lord  Hardmoor's  influence,  who,  thanks  to  his  art- 
mentor,  Count  von  Hardenburg,  has  become  a  fair 
critic.  I  was  astonished  the  other  day,  when  reading 
one  of  his  letters,  at  the  artistic  acumen  he  displays, 
and  his  skill  in  placing  my  pictures  so  that  they  have 
sold  remarkably  well.  I  am  beginning  to  reap  quite  a 
little  harvest  of  golden  fruit,  which  I  propose  to  use  in 
repairing  and  decorating  my  much  neglected  ancestral 
halls.  The  work  is  already  begun  under  Lord  Hard- 
moor's supervision,  and  in  less  than  a  year  I  shall  return 
to  England  and  settle  down  with  my  golden-haired 
darling  into  a  steady,  practical  country  gentleman. 

Oh,  how  much  it  will  cost  me  to  give  up  Kome  and 
my  life  here !  To  give  up  art,  for  it  means  that,  put  it 
however  1  will.  One's  talent  cannot  live  without  some 
aesthetic  nourishment,  some  atmosphere  congenial  to  it. 
In  that  cold  moorland  home,  bound  down  to  the  hum- 
drum duties  of  life,  how  can  I  paint  ?  Alas  !  my  soul's 
worship  will  give  place  to  my  heart's  worship.  I  shall 
paint  Dorethea  a  few  times  in  different  attitudes ;  I  shall 
make  some  severe  gray  studies  of  barren  moors,  sand 
dunes,  and  stunted  trees;  I  shall  go  up  to  London  for  I 
the  exhibitions,  and  be  turned  to  gall  and  vinegar  at  the 
sight  of  others'  progress,  and  shall  return  with  new  re- 


mm-imim-mmim' 


USIAST. 


LA    SANTA. 


lis  noble  tal'juts 
uould  paint  grand, 
hing  sublime ;  but 

sent  to  the  Salon, 
has  been  enthusi- 

>  that  the  country 
should  appreciate 
e  in  a  measure  to 
lanks  to  his  art- 
s  become  a  fair 
lay,  when  reading 
lunen  he  displays, 
so  that  they  have 
ig  to  reap  quite  a 

propose  to  use  in 
leglected  ancestral 
under  Lord  Hard- 
year  I  shall  return 

my  golden-haired 
y  gentleman. 

give  up  Kome  and 
means  that,  put  it 

live  without  some 
ere  congenial  to  it. 
iown  to  the  hum- 

>  Alas  !  my  soul's 
5  worship.  I  shall 
it  attitudes ;  I  shall 
)arren  moors,  sand 

up  to  London  for 

and  vinegar  at  the 

eturn  with  new  re- 


solves, make  a  few  more  ineffectual  struggles,  and  final- 
ly succumb  to  the  inevitable,  and  drift  away  from  my  old 
love,  with  its  thousand  numeless  charms,  until  my  hand 
shall  forget  its  cunning,  my  eye  its  seeing,  and  so  I  shall 
idly  float  down  to  the  shadows  of  oblivion,  forgetting 
and  forgotten. 

But  1  must  not  look  at  it  so  gloomily.  There  is  a 
reverse  side  to  the  dark  picture.  With  Dorethea  and  the 
Raphael,  which  must  again  be  mine,  shall  I  not  find  all 
the  inspiration  I  need '.'  The  blue  eyes  of  one  and  the 
brown  eyes  of  the  other  will  open  up  a  paradise  where 
I  can  wander  at  will,  and  find  the  purest,  sweetest  scenes 
to  revel  in.  Ah  me  !  and  become  a  weak  sentimentalist, 
a  thing  I  despise;  and  so  this  internal  debate  goes  on 
ever  and  ever.  Fool  that  I  was  to  promise  to  live  in 
England  !  Dorethea  loves  me,  and  she  would  go  with 
me  wherever  my  destiny  led  me. 

•  "  •  •  • 

I  have  just  returned  from  the  Villa  Medici,  where  I 
found  our  dear  master  and  madam  in  a  state  of  great 
anxiety.  The  cholera  has  broken  out  in  the  Trastevere. 
This  terrible  scourge  is  really  here  in  Rome,  and  the 
question  of  what  we  are  to  do  arises  —  stay  here  and 
brave  it,  or  run  away  and  perhaps  find  it  wherever  we 
go?  M.  Ingres  and  madam  are  resolved  to  remain. 
Paul  will  not  leave  them,  and  I  will  not  leave  Paul. 
Camille  will  stay,  because,  I  surmise,  that  he  is  indiffer- 
ent and  does  not  fear  death.  The  Brents  will  go  to 
Sienna,  and  some  of  the  pensionnaires  to  the  heights  of 
Perugia. 

Madam  Raymond  and  Angelique  were  present,  and 
agreed  with  our  master  that  it  would  be  weakness  to 
leave  the  stricken  city.    "  We  may  be  able  to  help  the 


'gpa^g 


■"■:"|.!M"A.W;')!se.. 


232 


tllK   STOIlY   OP    AS   KNTHtTSIAST. 


suffering,"  said  Angwliciue,  her  diviuo  face  aglow  with 
noble  fervor.  "  It  is  our  duty  to  stay.  I  am  young  and 
strong,  and  I  do  not  fear  ;  but  mama  must  not  be  exposed 

to  it." 

"My  child,"  replied  ^ladam  Raymond,  firmly, 
"neither  of  us  will  seek  danger,  but  if  it  comes  to 
us  we  will  not  shrink  from  it  — we  will  do  what 
we  can." 

"My  friends,"  cried  M.  Ingres,  "you  shall  come  up 
liere  where  it  is  dry  and  sunny,  and  we  will  all  take 
shelter  like  a  flock  of  frightened  birds  under  the  trees 
of  the  garden," 

"  But  I  am  not  frightened,"  rejoined  Angclique  ;  "  I 
have  always  wanted  an  opportunity  to  do  something 
devotional,  and  now  is  my  chance.  I  shall  nurse  the 
sick." 

We  all  protested  in  terror,  but  the  girl  was  firm. 
"  Mama,"  she  paid,  simply,  "  if  the  cholera  spreads,  and 
I  am  needed,  I  shall  do  what  I  can." 

Madam  Raymond  burst  into  tears,  and  looked  implor- 
ingly at  our  master.  "  She  is  capable  of  it ;  she  would 
risk  her    life    for    an    idea,"   she    said,    through    her 

sobs. 

"  Calm  yourself,  my  dear  friend,"  said  madam ;  "  An- 
g«51ique  loves  you  too  well  to  grieve  you  needlessly,  and 
we  shall  all  keep  a  watch  over  her.  Depend  upon  us,  we 
shall  not  allow  her  to  expose  herself." 

Angelique  flew  to  her  mother,  and  used  all  sorts  of 
endearments  to  soothe  her,  but  she  still  repeated :  "  If  I 
am  needed,  mama,  only  if  I  am  needed,  I  should  be 
obliged ;  and  you  know  I  do  not  wish  to  make  you  un- 
happy. In  that  case,  I  should  not  belong  to  you,  nor  to 
myself,  but  to  God  and  the  suffering."    .    .    . 


fii»ii«iiaiiiai»WiM<>iiai'ifiiifiiifBiTrKftiii*i^^^^^ 


aglow  with 
n  young  and 
t  be  exposed 

)iul,    firmly, 

it  comes  to 

11    do   what 

all  come  np 
will  all  take 
der  the  trees 

igelique  ;  "  I 
o  something 
ill  nurse  the 

rl  was  firm, 
spreads,  and 

loked  implor- 
t ;  she  would 
through    her 

ladam;  "An- 
icdlessly,  and 
i  upon  us,  we 

d  all  sorts  of 
seated :  "  If  I 
I  should  be 
make  you  un- 
to you,  nor  to 


LA   SANTA. 


233 


This  evening  we  were  all  at  the  Villa  Medici,  rather 
sad  than  otherwise,  for  to-morrow  the  Hrents  go,  and  a 
number  of  the  pensionnaires,  and  our  party  will  be 
greatly  diminished.  We  have  just  learned  that  most  of 
the  foreigners  will  leave  the  stricken  city,  for  fear  that 
quarantine  will  be  declared ;  then  they  will  be  obliged  to 
remain,  whether  they  wish  to  or  not. 

1  think  this  unexpected  separation  has  brought  about 
an  understanding  between  Paul  and  Laura.  He  has 
been  at  her  side  most  of  the  evening,  and  I  notice  that 
the  gay  girl  is  very  much  subdued,  while  our  reticent 
friend  looks  at  her  with  a  happy  smile  that  quite  betrays 
his  secret. 

Just  before  leaving,  Angeliique  and  I  had  a  few  mo- 
ments' conversation,  when  she  told  me  that  she  had  seen 
a  French  swur  de  charite,  who  was  an  old  friend  of 
her  fath  —  a  good,  holy  woman,  —  and  that  she  has 
promiset'  .  :-  her  when  she  is  needed.  "She  thinks 
it  my  duv  i.  dearly  as  I  love  mama,  I  must  consider 
that  first. 

I  tried  to  dissuade  her.     "  You  are  all  your  mother 
.  has.     It  would  kill  her  to  lose  you." 

"There  is  no  certainty  that  I  should  lose  my  life, 
even  if  I  expose  myself  to  the  infection.  Many  people 
live  through  it ;  I  have  no  fear.  It  is  not  my  destiny  to 
drop  this  earthly  part  of  me  so  soon.  Oh,  no ;  I  have  yet 
much  to  learn  and  much  to  suffer.  My  friend,"  she  added, 
with  a  tearful  smile,  "you  may  live  to  regret  that  I  did 
not  fall  early  in  the  strife.  I  can  see  a  long  distance  into 
the  future,  and  I  know  that  I  am  not  always  to  walk 
over  smooth  i)aths ;  but,  whatever  comes,  I  shall  try  to 
walk  firmly  and  fearlessly."  Then,  holding  out  her 
hand  and  turning  the  divine  light  of  her  eyes  full  upon 


234 


THE   STORY   OB'   AN    ENTHUSIAST. 


im>,  she  said,  softly :  "  Dear  friend,  bless  me,  and  say 
CJod-speed,  and  x  shall  be  happier  for  it." 

As  I  looked  into  her  face,  a  sudden  wave  of  Rorrow 
snrged  through  my  soul,  for  distinctly  and  vividly  a 
pieture  came  before  me  —  a  wide,  burning  desert,  a  soli- 
tary 2>'dm,  t  vo  2>il'Ji'ii>^ii  seekin;/  it,  and  under  its  scanty 
shade  clasping  hands  and  weejiing  together. 

X. 

To-day  I  recei^-ed  a  letter  from  Dorethea,  telling  me 
of  the  serious  illness  of  her  mother.  The  doctors  give 
them  little  hope;  therefore,  the  poor  child  is  in  deep 
grief,  and  I  must  hasten  to  her. 

How  sad  that  such  ill  tidings  should  come  close  upon 
the  suffering  and  death  of  these  last  dreadful  months. 
It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  been  living  in  a  cliarnel- 
house,  with  death  all  around  me.  From  five  to  six  hun- 
dred a  day  have  fallen  under  the  sickle  of  the  relentless 
reaper. 

Rome  is  almost  deserted.  Few  foreigners  remain,  ex- 
cepting our  little  group,  gathered  around  our  dear  master 
at  the  Villa  Medici.  Noble  man !  he  refused  to  leave 
his  post  of  duty,  even  when  most  of  the  pensionnaires 
sought  safety  in  flight.  And  now  we  hope  the  worst  is 
over.  The  plague  is  steadily  abating,  and  is-  confined 
mostly  to  the  Borgo  and  Trastevere  ;  there,  the  unfor- 
tunate sufferers  have  fallen  like  dumb  animals  at  the 
slaughter,  without  an  effort  to  save  themselves.  This 
reign  of  terror  has  demoralized  them  to  such  an  extent 
that  they  have  become  hardened  and  indifferent. 

What  scenes  of  woe,  what  selfishness  and  base  coward- 
ice, we  have  witnessed,  as  well  as  deeds  of  heroism  and 


^. 


me,  and  say 

ve  of  sorrow 
1(1  vividly  a 
desert,  a  soli- 
Icr  its  scant ij 


a,  telling  me 
doctors  give 
d  is  in  deep 

e  close  upon 
dful  montlis. 
n  a  cliaruel- 
e  to  six  hun- 
tlie  relentless 

■s  remain,  ex- 
ir  dear  master 
used  to  leave 
pensionnaires 
the  worst  is 
i  is-  confined 
re,  the  uufor- 
limals  at  the 
iselves.  This 
ich  an  extent 
erent. 

1  base  coward- 
l  heroism  and 


■ 


LA   SANTA.  "Sdii 

solt'-sacritidi'  that  to-day  stand  recorded  in  living  char- 
acters on  the  book  of  life  ! 

As  for  La  Santa  —  for  I  must  call  lier  by  that  name  — 
she  has  been  sublime.  That  delicate  young  girl,  that 
frail  cliild,  has  taught  us  all  the  beauty  of  charity  and 
self-renunciation,  and  what  could  we  strong  iiuMi  do  but 
follow  where  her  gentle  footsteps  led  us.  Her  mother, 
seeing  that  her  entreaties  were  useless,  and  that  the  girl 
was  called  and  sustained  by  a  divine  power,  assisted 
her  in  her  good  work,  and  endured  her  anxieties  silently 
and  patiently.  The  Jesuits,  the  S(eurs  de  Charit6,  a 
few  foreigners,  and  a  young  girl  as  fair  and  frail  as  a 
lily,  have  stemmed  the  tide,  without  government  organ- 
ization or  aid,  and  with  very  little  nxedical  assistance. 

How  many  sufferers  have  been  comforted  and  lighted 
through  the  darkness  to  the  verge  of  the  Valley  and 
Shadow  of  Death,  none  but  God  can  know.  How  many 
little  children  and  aged  and  feeble  women  have  been 
cared  for,  fed,  and  warmed,  only  their  grateful  hearts 
can  bear  witness  to.  Camille,  the  brilliant,  reckless 
trifler,  has  shown  us  of  what  fine  clay  he  is  moulded,  and 
what  a  tender,  unselfish  heart  beats  beneath  the  careless 
surface.  He  seems  to  have  laid  aside  the  very  needs  of 
nature.  Fatigue  and  fasting  have  no  power  over  him. 
Day  and  night,  he  plunges  into  the  depths  of  this  pit  of 
misery  with  an  indifference  Lo  self  that  is  wonderful. 
I  sometimes  think  he  is  trying  to  expiate  his  past  sin, 
trying  to  ease  his  burdened  conscience,  which,  since  his 
father's  death,  accuses  him  bitterly. 

"  I  shortened  his  life,"  he  said  one  day,  with  a  burst 
of  passionate  sorrow,  when  I  was  urging  him  to  spare 
himself  a  little.  "  I  made  his  last  days  miserable ;  my 
folly  struck  the  fuLal  blow.     He  never  smiled  after  the 


— -aiJtawsiinamiiwMj 


^>fej<w>ii'.i;l!..l.lqi!illl!JW<n<-«mHS'W,H 


236 


THE  8TOUY   01-'   AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


(liiy  he  knew  of  luy  disgrace.  What  is  my  blighted  life 
compared  with  that  noble,  upright  man,  wliose  iiame 
and  love  1  was  never  worthy  of?  Let  me  do  what  I 
can.  It  is  a  consolation.  I  am  neither  weary  nor  ill. 
Think  of  Angelique ;  try  to  sjjare  her.  She  is  worn 
out,  poor  child,  and  her  sweet  life  is  worth  a  dozen 
of  mine." 

A  few  d.ays  after  this  burst  of  emotion,  Paul,  wild- 
eyed,  pale,  and  dishevelled,  rushed  into  my  room,  where 
I  Avas  seeking  a  little  rci)ose.  "  My  friend,  our  poor  Ca- 
mille  is  stricken ;  come  with  me,  for  God's  sake,  and  let 
us  try  to  save  him." 

"  Where  is  La  Santa  ?    Does  she  know  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  we  could  not  keep  it  from  her.  The  Seeur 
Agnes  was  called  first,  and  Angfilicpie  was  with  her. 
They  are  there,  doing  all  they  can  for  him." 

When  we  reached  Camille's  apartment  in  the  Fratina, 
we  found  a  sad  group  gathered  around  his  bed.  A  doc- 
tor had  been  summoned  some  time  before,  and  had  just 
arrived,  worn  out,  and  unnerved  from  sleeplessness  and 
fasting.  He  was  hopeless,  and  at  the  first  glance  said 
that  nothing  could  be  done.  It  was  a  fatal  case,  and 
the  poor  young  man  was  even  then  in  a  state  of  coma. 
A  few  hours  before,  he  miglit  have  been  saved,  but  now 
it  was  too  late. 

"  It  is  sad,  very  sad,"  added  the  kind-hearted  doctor. 
"  He  has  been  so  brave,  so  good ;  he  has  saved  so  many 
lives,  and  now  he  must  lose  his  own;  he  must  fall  just 
when  the  battle  is  over.  One  can  scarcely  believe  in  a 
special  Providence " ;  and  with  a  Aveary,  disheartened 
sigh  he  Avent  away. 

Angelique  had  been  kneeling  silently  by  the  bed,  her 
face  covered  Avith  her  hands ;  now  she  rose  up  like  one 


iiiinWrtMiMBiii. 


iilttita'iMnWfMwrt 


HAST. 

ny  blighted  life 
n,  wliose  iiame 
i  me  do  what  I 
r  weary  nor  ill. 
.  Hlie  is  worn 
worth  a  dozen 


ion,  Paul,  wild- 
luy  room,  where 
lul,  oiu"  i)oor  Ca- 
t's sake,  and  let 

?" 
ber.     The  Soeur 

was  with  her. 
m." 

.  in  the  Fratina, 
is  bed.  A  doc- 
e,  and  had  just 
leeplessness  and 
tirst  glance  said 

fatal  case,  and 
I  state  of  coma. 

saved,  but  now 

[-hearted  doctor, 
saved  so  many 
e  must  fall  just 
ely  believe  in  a 
L'v,  disheartened 

by  the  bed,  her 
rose  up  like  one 


LA   SANTA. 


287 


refreshed.  She  had  been  praying,  and  her  eyes  were 
wet  with  tears. 

"My  friends,"  she  said,  softly,  laying  her  hand  ou 
Camille's  cold  forehead,  "there  is  still  hope.  Dr. 
Vauozzi  is  weary  to  despair.  If  it  is  God's  will,  Ave  can 
save  him." 

Sister  Agnes  chafed  his  cold  hands,  while  Paul  and  I 
administered  the  most  efficacious  remedies ;  while  An- 
g<^lique  bathed  his  brow,  and  wiped  away  the  cold  dew 
that  gathered  on  his  temples. 

Who  would  have  i-ecognized  the  handsome,  brilliant 
Camille  in  that  wan,  sunken  face,  as  pallid  and  immo- 
bile as  carved  stone  ?  From  time  to  time,  a  faint  sigh 
escaped  from  between  his  drawn  lips,  and  Angelique 
bent  her  head  to  listen.  Was  it  the  suft'ering  gasp  of 
the  last  struggle,  or  the  first  painful  effort  of  returning 
vitality  ? 

It  was  a  moment  of  intense  agony  to  us  all ;  but  La 
Santa  seemed  inspired  with  divine  confidence.  "He 
will  live,"  she  said,  softly;  "he  will  live.  The  end  is 
not  yet.  Oh,  my  poor  Camille !  perhaps  it  were  better 
if  God  called  you  now.  Merciful  Heaven !  what  do  I 
see  !"  she  exclaimed,  suddenly,  falling  on  her  knees,  and 
covering  her  eyes.  "  It  is  a  vision  of  his  future.  I  seem 
to  see  him  dying  far  from  here  —  far  from  me;  he 
reaches  out  his  hands  toward  heaven.  Oh !  he  is  gone 
from  my  sight ;  a  great  wave  swallows  him.  His  body 
whirls  downward  like  a  leaf  in  a  tempest.  I  see  it  all, 
and  I  cannot  help  him." 

"  She  is  losing  her  senses,"  whispered  Sister  Agnes. 
"Can  you  not  take  her  away?  This  is  too  much  for 
her." 

"Angelique,  my  little  sister,  let  me  take  you  home," 


288 


THE   8TOUY   OF   AN    ENTHUSIAST. 


I  said,  entreatingly.  "  You  are  so  weary,  you  will  be  ill 
yourself.     Vou  imist  take  some  rest." 

"No,  no,  my  friend,  I  am  not  tired.  I  have  seen 
into  the  future,  and  my  soul  is  sad.  You  do  not  know  ; 
you  cannot  understand." 

"  Aly  dear  child,  your  nerves  and  brain  are  worn  out. 
Your  imagination  is  full  of  horrors.  Let  me  take  you  to 
your  motlier ;  she  will  soothe  and  comfort  you." 

"  I  must  stay  here  until  the  crisis  is  passed.  If  God 
saves  him  now,  I  shall  know  that  it  is  my  mission  to 
live  for  him,  to  give  my  life  for  his  soul.  I  see  it  all 
clearly  now  :  my  future  and  my  duty." 

All  our  persuasion  was  useless.  Several  hours  passed, 
and  our  friend's  life  still  hung  in  the  balance  ;  at  length, 
his  extremities  showed  a  slight  warmth;  his  limbs 
relaxed,  and  a  low,  burdened  moan  fell  distinctly  on  our 
ears.  Angclique  never  removed  her  eyes  from  his  face 
So  intent  was  her  gaze  that  it  seemed  to  draw  him  back 
from  the  gates  of  death.  His  eyelids  quivered  slightly, 
and  she  bent  to  his  ear  and  whispered  softly.  I  only 
heard  his  name ;  and  Camille  heard  it  also. 

"  There  is  a  change,"  whispered  Sister  Agnes,  her  fin- 
ger on  his  wrist.  "His  pulse  is  stronger.  The  crisis  is 
passed,  thank  God  !  there  is  now  hope." 

Angulique  pressed  her  lips  to  his  pale  forehead.  Then, 
reaching  out  her  hands  like  one  groping  in  darkness,  she 
said,  in  a  broken  voice  :  "Take  me  home  ;  I  must,  rest 
now." 

Poor  child !  she  was  half-fainting  when  I  lifted  her 
into  a  carriage,  and  went  with  her  to  the  Capo  le  Case. 
Madam  Raymond  and  her  maid  carried  the  weary,  ex- 
hausted girl  to  her  room,  where  she  lay  for  some  time 
too  ill  to  take  any  part  in  the  rejoicing  at  Camille's 
recovery. 


UAST. 

•,  yoii  will  be  ill 

L  I  have  seen 
u  do  not  know  ; 

in  are  worn  out. 
t  me  take  you  to 
it  yoii." 

passed.  If  God 
i  my  mission  to 
ul.     I  see  it  all 

•al  hours  passed, 
ance ;  at  length, 
ith ;  his  limbs 
listinctly  on  our 
es  from  his  face 
•  draw  him  back 
aivered  slightly, 
.  softly.     I  only 

iO. 

r  Agnes,  her  fin- 
i\     The  crisis  is 

orehead.  Then, 
in  darkness,  she 
ae  ;  I  must .  rest 

len  I  lifted  her 
le  Capo  le  Case, 
i  the  weary,  ex- 
ly  for  some  time 
ng  at  Camille's 


"V^ 


LA   SANTA. 


239 


Yesterday,  they  saw  each  other  for  the  first  time 
since  that  day  of  fearful  anguish.  Madam  Ingres,  who 
was  present,  said  their  meeting  was  quite  touching. 
Camille  was  very  interesting  in  his  pallor  and  weakness, 
and  Angelique  looked  more  like  a  saint  than  ever.  Both 
of  them  are  fully  conscious  of  the  danger  through  which 
they  have  passed,  and  humbly  grateful  that  the  dark 
days  are  over,  and  warm,  bright  life  still  lies  before  them. 

"  It  is  not  just  as  I  wished  it  to  be,"  said  dear  madam, 
her  gentle  eyes  tearful,  and  her  mouth  smiling.  "  You 
know  I  was  so  afraid  that  you  would  mar  my  plans  that 
I  never  thought  of  Camille  ;  besides,  I  did  not  think  it 
possible  for  Angelique  to  love  a  man  so  supremely  vion- 
dnin.  But  you  know  the  old  proverb, '  I'hoinme  propose ' 
—  and  it  may  be  the  salvation  of  our  friend.  ^The  love  of 
such  a  saint  will  make  him  better,  in  spite  of  himself." 

«  But  are  you  sure  that  they  love  each  other  ?  You 
remember  —  " 

"  Oh,  please  don't.  Yes,  I  remember,  and  I  admit  I 
was  wrong.  After  this,  I  must  humbly  confess  that  I 
know  nothing  of  human  nature,  and  that  the  ways  of 
women  are  past  finding  out." 

"  Ah,  well !  if  you  are  sure  —  " 

"  Sure  !  one  needs  only  to  see  them  together  torday ; 
their  happy  eyes  tell  the  whole  story." 

"But  Paul,  poor  Paul!  who  will  console  him?"  I 

asked. 

«  Why,  Laura,  of  course.  Did  you  not  notice  the  excel- 
lent understanding  between  them  before  she  went  away  ?  " 

I  smiled,  but  said  nothing.  I  had  gone  to  the  Villa 
to  say  good-by  to  my  dear  master  and  madam,  to  Paul, 
and  the  other  pens ionna ires,  who  had  returned,  when 
this  conversation  took  place. 


240 


THE   HTOUY  OK   AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


I  atn  glad  for  my  friend,  and  I  am  glad  that  Angt'lique 
has  decided  to  be  more  human,  although  she  cuu  never 
be  less  saintlj'.  I  wonder  if  Dorethoa  will  ever  meet 
her.  I  should  like  them  to  know  cacli  other.  I  feel  a 
deep  tenderness  for  the  sweet  girl,  —  a  purely  fraternal 
tenderness, —  and  I  hope  that  our  lives  will  never  be  en- 
tirely separated. 


To-morrow  I  leave  Rome  for  England,  and  I  just  begin 
to  feel  what  it  will  cost  me  to  leave  this  dear  home. 
Who  knows,  Avhen  he  goes,  whether  and  how  he  will  re- 
turn. How  much  I  shall  miss  my  favorite  pictures,  the 
Kaphaels  scattered  around  mo  in  every  gallery,  the 
Vatican,  the  gardens,  the  palaces,  and  my  second  home, 
the  Villa  Medici.  Where  shall  I  tind  such  warm  hearts, 
such  friendly  greeting,  and  my  pretty  sunny  rooms,  my 
bright  little  Tita? — the  garden  below  my  window,  which 
next  spring  will  be  odorous  with  violets  and  stately 
with  white,  waxen  camellias,  for  other  eyes  to  feast  upon. 
Some  other  glance  will  rest  on  my  warm  pink  wall  and 
slender  oleander.  But  will  they  love  it  all  as  I  have  ? 
And  at  night  where  shall  I  look  for  my  serene  star  ? 
It  will  still  hang  above  the  black  cross ;  and  haply  some 
other  soul  will  find  the  calm  and  consolation  in  it  that  I 
have. 

Ah  me !  Is  it  true  that  every  joy  in  life  has  its  re- 
frain, its  echo  of  sorrow  ?  It  is  all  sad  and  mournful. 
My  Dorethea  may  even  now  be  weeping,  and  I  not  there 
to  comfort  her.  I  leave  the  dead  behind  me  :  the  young, 
the  pure,  the  noble,  who  have  perished  from  the  earth, 
and  I  go  perhaps  to  'find  another  sorrow  —  I  know  not. 
God  keep  us  all,  and  give  us  patience  and  courage. 
To-raorrow's  sun  may  dawn  on  a  brighter  day. 


IU81AST. 

lad  that  Angt'liquo 
ugh  she  cut;  never 
oa  will  ever  meet 
ch  other.  I  feel  a 
■a  purely  fraternal 
y  will  never  be  eu- 


(1,  and  I  just  begin 
B  this  dear  home, 
lid  how  he  will  re- 
write pictures,  the 
jvery  gallery,  the 
.  my  second  home, 
such  warm  hearts, 

sunny  rooms,  my 
my  window,  which 
iolets  and  stately 
eyes  to  feast  upon. 
urn  pink  wall  and 
it  all  as  I  have  ? 

my  serene  star  ? 
i ;  and  haply  some 
illation  in  it  that  I 

in  life  has  its  re- 
ad and  mournful. 
ig,  and  I  not  there 
id  me  :  the  young, 
d  from  the  earth, 
ow  —  I  know  not. 
ince  and  courage, 
ter  day. 


l^ 


PART  V. 
THE  STRANGE  STORY  OF  A  PICTURE. 


PART   V. 


\> 


THE   STKANOE   8T0HY   OF   A    I'lCTUKK. 
1. 

When  I  reached  Iliidilingham  Hall,  three  (hiys  after 
Lady  Hardmoor's  burial,  I  louiid  tliat  Dorethea  was 
(luito  prostrated  with  grief,  and  contined  to  her  room ; 
therefore,  she  was  not  told  of  my  arrival.  Lord  Hard- 
moor  seat  for  mo  to  come  to  his  study,  where  lie  was 
sitting  with  a  hook  open  before  him,  which  he  did  not 
appear  to  be  reading. 

Ho  welcomed  me  kindly  but  sadly,  spoke  of  his  great 
loss  in  a  constrained,  formal  way,  and  then  turned  tlie 
conversation  to  other  subjects.  He  seemed  greatly  in- 
terested in  art,  asked  me  what  I  had  been  doing,  and 
if  I  had  any  pictures  ready  for  the  spring  exhibition, 
talked  a  great  deal  about  the  new  gallery  in  London, 
and  his  friend.  Count  von  Hardenburg,  and  regrcltcd 
that  I  could  not  make  his  acquaintance  now,  as  they 
were  not  receiving  any  one  at  the  Hall,  and  then  went 
on  to  inquire  about  my  present  plans. 

I  told  him  briefly  that  I  had  returnsd  to  England  only 
to  see  Dorethea  and  to  try  to  comfort  her  in  her  great 
sorrow. 

"  Poor  child !  she  needs  it  sorely,  she  is  terribly  broken 
down,  her  nervous  system  is  quite  deranged,  and  the  doc- 
tor says  she  must  be  very  quiet  for  a  few  days.  'No  doubt 
it  seems  hard  for  you  not  to  see  her  at  once  when  you 

243 


244 


THE   STOUY   OF  AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


have  come  so  far,  but  have  patience  ;  she  is  young  and  she 
will  soon  recover  from  her  tirst  passionate  grief.  In  the 
meantime,  try  and  make  yourself  comfortable.  You  will 
find  it  a  sad  house  now ;  however,  do  the  best  you  can,  as 
we  all  must.  If  possible,  I  will  meet  you  at  dinner. 
You  may  see  your  cousin  Walter  during  the  afternoon ; 
he  is  here  often,  as  he  is  settled  at  East  Haddingham." 

"  Dorethea  wrote  to  me  that  he  had  taken  orders,  but 
I  did  not  know  that  he  had  the  curacy." 

"  Yes,  your  uncle  as  well  as  I  thought  it  best  that  he 
should  be  here.  My  brother's  health  is  much  broken, 
and  he  needs  some  one  to  relieve  him  of  his  duties  as 
much  as  is  possible." 

"  I  will  walk  over  to  the  village  and  call  on  Walter, 
I  want  to  see  the  cottage  and  Mr.  Lonely's  grave,"  I 
said,  rising. 

As  I  was  leaving  the  room,  Lord  Hardmoor  spoke 
abruptly,  and  in  a  choked  voice,  while  he  looked  away, 
"You  will  see  her  grave  too.  You  know  she  always 
loved  you.  She  spoke  of  you  just  before  her  death,  and 
left  some  message  for  you.  Let  me  think !  what  were  her 
words  ? — my  memory  seems  to  be  failing,"  and  he  pressed 
his  hand  to  his  eyes  to  hide  his  tears.  "  It  was  this,  I 
think  ;  to  tell  you  to  be  very  tender  with  Dorethea,  and 
to  do  all  in  your  power  to  make  her  happy,  and  she  left 
you  her  best  love." 

I  could  not  speak,  I  only  shook  his  hand  silently  and 
went  away.  How  kind  she  was  in  those  old  days,  when 
I  was  so  ill  and  desolate,  my  Dorethea's  mother,  and  if 
she  had  lived  I  could  have  called  her  mine.  Never 
again  could  that  sweet,  gracious  smile  greet  me,  that 
gentle  hand  clasp  mine,  or  soothe  my  aching  head  with 
tender  touch  and  soft  caressing.    I  was  weary  from  my 


■WWMWiiiHWiiJ>MUi^iweM!i«irt;mw» 


mi" """ 


i|itiii!i>i!iiiiiriijjiji^^jn  ^^n^lyl 


PHUSIAST. 

she  is  young  and  she 
iionate  grief.  In  the 
infortablc.  You  will 
J  the  best  you  can,  as 
neet  you  at  dinner, 
iiing  the  afternoon ; 
East  Haddingham." 
ad  taken  orders,  but 
icy." 

aught  it  best  that  he 
ilth  is  much  broken, 
him  of  his  duties  as 

and  call  on  Walter. 
.  Lonely's  grave,"  I 

>rd  Hardmoor  spoke 
hile  he  looked  away, 
lu  know  she  always 
before  her  death,  and 
think !  what  were  her 
liling,"  and  he  pressed 
ars.  "  It  was  this,  I 
!r  with  Dorethea,  and 
r  happy,  and  she  left 

liis  hand  silently  and 
those  old  days,  when 
sthea's  mother,  and  if 
3d  her  mine.  Never 
smile  greet  me,  that 
my  aching  head  with 
[  was  weary  from  my 


THE  STRANGE  STORY   OF  A   PICTURE.  245 

jo\irney,  and  grievously  disai)pointed  because  I  could 
not  fold  my  darling  in  my  anus  and  kiss  away  her  tears. 
It  seemed  an  eternity  to  wait  two  or  three  days,  when 
I  was  so  near  her ;  therefore  my  heart  was  very  heavy 
when  1  started  to  walk  alone  to  the  cottage. 

When  I  reached  the  church-yard,  1  went  first  to  the 
Hardmoor  tomb,  near  the  chancel  window,  and  there  I 
knelt  and  gave  free  vent  to  my  sorrow  in  a  copious  flood 
of  tears  ;  after  that  I  was  calm  but  profoundly  sad. 

Again  I  stood  by  Mr.  Lonely's  grave.  Another  white 
slab  lay  beside  the  one  that  bore  the  name  of  Alice. 
Already  the  trees  had  united  their  branches,  and  the 
vines,  climbing  upward,  luxuriantly  entwined  one  Avith 
the  other.  On  the  slab  was  his  name,  and  beneath  a 
single  line  :— 

"  And  he  also  has  come  to  his  desired  haven." 

The  western  sun  threw  the  long  shadows  of  the  trees 
across  the  greensward,  the  leaves  whispered  in  the  soft 
wind,  a  few  birds  twittered  plaintively,  hopping  about 
among  the  flowers  as  fearlessly  as  though  they  knew 
the  silent  sleepers  could  never  awake  to  disturb  them. 
The  river  flowed  on  and  on,  its  farther  margin  reflecting 
the  purple  hills  and  the  blue  dome  of  heaven,  while  near, 
it  lay  like  molten  silver  set  with  bars  of  gold  and  spark- 
ling jewels. 

The  intervening  years  seemed  to  slip  away,  and  once 
more  I  was  gliding  down  that  swift  stream  with  Lady 
Hardmoor  and  Dorethea,  or  dashing  over  the  bleak 
stretches  of  moorland,  or  walking  in  the  twilight  through 
the  shady  lanes,  listening  spell-bound  to  the  beautiful 
words  that  fell  from  the  lips  of  my  beloved  teacher. 
What  talent,  what  a  lofty  soul,  what  a  strong  passionate 


246 


THE   STOUY  OF  AN    KNTHUSIAST. 


lieart  he  had,  and  this  was  the  end,  a  blighted  life,  a 
wasted  genius,  years  of  lonoliness,  remorse,  and  unrest. 
Through  this  he  had  come  to  his  desired  haven  —  a 
lonely,  neglected  grave. 

Deeply  affected,  yet  with  an  inward  thankfulness  that 
his  sorrows  had  found  so  peaceful  an  end,  I  walked  to 
the  cottage  and  unbidden  entered  the  little  parlor.  A 
pale,  slight,  young  man,  in  a  clerical  coat,  was  sitting  in 
Mr.  Lonely's  chair,  near  the  window,  reading.  He  rose 
as  I  entered,  and  I  recognized  my  cousin  Walter  at  a 
glance  because  of  his  likeness  to  his  mother. 

He  looked  at  me  for  a  moment  with  a  pleasant  smile, 
and  then,  holding  out  his  hand,  said,  "  It  is  true,  you  are 
much  changed,  but  you  have  the  same  eyes  and  features ; 
you  are  taller,  broader,  and  browner,  but  you  are  my 
cousin  Felix  without  a  doubt." 

I  clasped  his  extended  hand  warmly.  I  had  always 
liked  Walter.  During  the  uncomfortable  time  at  the 
Rectory  he  had  been  my  stanch  friend,  and  now,  look- 
ing at  me  with  his  mothers  eyes,  my  heart  went  out  to 
him  at  once.  He  gave  me  Mr.  Lonely's  chair,  and, 
drawing  the  very  one  I  used  to  sit  in  close  beside  me, 
we  were  soon  engaged  in  a  friendly  chat. 

AVhile  talking,  I  looked  around  the  room  where  I  had 
spent  so  many  peaceful  days.  It  was  but  little  changed. 
I  missed  the  lovely  face  of  Alice  from  over  the  mantel- 
piece, and  some  of  my  favorite  books ;  otherwise,  I  might 
have  thought  the  years  that  had  passed  but  a  dream,  so 
familiar  did  everything  appear. 

In  the  twilight,  we  walked  to  the  Hall,  through  the 
park;  on  our  way  I  visited  my  former  studio,  which 
Dorethea  had  insisted  on  keeping  in  the  same  condition 
as  when  I  occupied  it,  and  quite  ready  for  my  use  should 


I 

t: 

e 

ti 

t: 
I 

o 
a 
ii 
i 

h 
h 
u 

si 
:i 
w 
a 

1> 

11 
h 
h 

o; 
o: 
11 
V; 
ai 
w 
t( 
li 
w 


'J  IWy  l>;ii«MpiM  »!BHi»uijiMili¥tiwli»i' 


81AST. 

L  bliglited  life,  a 
orse,  and  unrest, 
■sired  haven  —  a 

hankfulness  that 
end,  I  walked  to 

little  parlor.  A 
it,  was  sitting  in 
sading.  He  rose 
Lsin  Walter  at  a 
)ther. 

a  pleasant  smile, 
[t  is  true,  you  are 
yes  and  features ; 

but  you  are  my 

jr.  I  had  always 
ible  time  at  the 
d,  and  now,  look- 
leart  went  out  to 
iiely's  chair,  and, 

close  beside  me, 
It. 

oom  where  I  had 
but  little  changed. 

over  the  mantel- 
otherwise,  I  might 
I  but  a  dream,  so 

Hall,  through  the 
ner  studio,  which 
16  same  condition 
for  my  use  should 


THK  STRANGE  STOUY  OF  A  I'lCTUUE. 


247 


T  return.  1  was  deeply  touched  by  this  evidence  of  her 
thoughtful  care.  Everything  was  in  perfect  order ;  my 
easel  stood  in  the  same  place,  with  an  unfinished  pic- 
ture resting  upon  it,  and  my  paints  and  palette  lay  on 
the  little  table  as  if  I  had  used  them  the  day  before. 

Walter  remained  at  the  Hall  to  dinner,  and  Lord 
Hardmoor  asked  to  be  excused  from  joining  us  ;  therefore 
our  confidences  were  continued.  Walter  told  me  of  his 
approaching  marriage  with  the  "  loveliest  and  best "  girl 
in  the  county,'  and  of  his  future  prospects.  The  living  of 
Haddingham  would  eventually  come  to  him ;  his  uncle 
liad  promised  it  him.  His  father's  ill-health  would  oblige 
him  to  resign  his  rectorship,  Mrs.  Lorrinier  insisted 
upon  it.  She  had  a  fine  estate  in  the  next  county,  where 
she  spent  much  of  her  time  with  the  younger  children, 
and  she  wished  to  reside  there  permanently.  Therefore, 
without  doubt  he  would  take  his  father's  place,  marry, 
and  settle  there  for  the  remainder  o2  his  life. 

He  seemed  perfectly  satisfied  with  his  futur"  as  it  was 
planned  for  him.  It  was  a  good  living,  his  duties  would 
liot  be  wearisome,  he  would  have  a  curate  as  his  father 
had.  It  was  an  honorable,  peaceful  existence,  and  he 
had  no  ambition  beyond  the  Church. 

Hearing  him  discussing  the  probabilities  of  his  life  so 
calmly,  and  with  such  practical  foresight,  I  began  to  think 
of  my  own  destiny.  Was  not  the  outlook  similar  in 
many  respects  ?  —  my  life  as  a  country  gentleman  would 
var^'  little  from  his.  He  would  preach  on  Sundays,  hunt 
and  dine  out  on  other  days.  I  Avould  do  about  the  same 
with  the  exception  of  preaching.  He  was  perfectly  con- 
tented with  his  future  prospect.^,  v'l'.il"  the  thought  of 
living  the  remainder  of  my  life  in  England  filled  me 
with  a  vague  dissatisfaction  and  unrest. 


1 


248 


TllK   STUUY   OF   AN   KNTUUSIAST. 


Why  was  I  so  different  from  my  cousin  ?  Did  not  the 
same  blood  course  through  our  veins  ?  My  father  and  his 
only  sister  must  have  been  entirely  unlik?  in  their  tem- 
perament, if  1  got  my  strain  of  Hohemianism  from  him. 
Or  did  I  get  it  from  my  French  mother?  I  was  not 
like  my  English  relatives  —  either  in  looks,  thought,  or 
feeling;  and  the  more  I  knew  of  them,  the  wider  I  felt 
the  dissimilarity  to  be. 

Suddenly  I  found  myself  wondering  for  the  first  time, 
how  Dorethea,  Avho  is  a  pure  child  of  the  soil,  can  love 
me  and  find  her  other  self  in  me,  when  I  am  so  un-Eng- 
lish, so  different  from  those  whom  she  is  accustomed  to. 
Will  I  not  disappoint  her  by  and  by,  and  perhaps  make 
her  miserable  ? 

The  next  morning,  while  walking  in  the  garden,  the 
same  thoughts  occurred  to  me ;  but  I  would  not  allow 
them  to  mar  my  happiness.  My  Dorethea  was  better, 
and  her  father  promised  me  that  I  should  see  her  later 
in  the  day. 

I  was  wandering  about  restlessly  through  the  formal 
walks  and  well  kept  avenues,  and  thinking  how  different 
they  were  from  my  sunny  wall  and  the  tangle  of  violets 
beneath  the  camellia  trees.  Oh,  for  another  glimpse  of 
the  dilapidated  j^in'ffola,  the  grassy  walks,  the  patches  of 
vegetables,  and  the  spreading  iig-tree,  of  my  favorite 
garden  under  that  lloman  sky  !  Verily,  there  was  some- 
thing wild  and  uncultivated  in  my  nature.  I  was 
startled  to  see  it  so  apparent.  It  was  there,  but  I  must 
hide  it  from  every  one,  and  my  whole  life  must  be  a  lie. 

There  was  a  slight  rustling  behind  me;  a  shadow 
darted  across  the  path.  I  looked  up  and  my  Dorethea 
stood  before  me.  I  held  out  my  arms,  and  in  an  instant 
she  was  sobbing  on  my  breast. 


h( 

gc 
ca 

Wi 

h( 

Wi 

h( 
m 
Ik 

h£ 

"( 
of 
loi 
de 


wl 
or 
fo 
ha 
fo 

mi 
an 
so 

is 

yo 

all 

fai 

to 


K^- 


TUUBIAST. 

iousin  ?  Did  not  the 
1  ?  My  father  and  his 
unlik?  in  their  tern- 
lemianism  from  him. 
mother  ?  I  was  not 
in  looks,  thought,  or 
hem,  the  wider  I  felt 

ing  for  the  first  time, 
of  the  soil,  can  love 
'hen  I  am  so  un-Eng- 
3he  is  accustomed  to 
y,  and  perhaps  make 

g  in  the  garden,  the 

t  I  would  not  allow 

Dorethea  was  better, 

should  see  her  later 

yr  through  the  formal 
hinking  how  different 
[  the  tangle  of  violets 
or  another  glimpse  of 
walks,  the  patches  of 
-tree,  of  my  favorite 
nily,  there  was  somo- 
niy  nature.  I  was 
vas  there,  but  I  must 
lole  life  must  be  a  lie. 
ehind  me;  a  shadow 
up  and  my  Dorethea 
rms,  and  in  an  instant 


-im-,^mi    II    I    n>.ni^»B»i||p»MirM miii.if 


/'' I|UI'I'.»,  UJW»i|l»'l.i 


THK  STUANGE  STORY  OP   A    I'lCTUUK. 


249 


I  tried  to  soothe  her  —  as  well  as  I  could,  for  my  own 
heart  and  voice  were  full  of  tears.  1  stroked  tlie  soft 
golden  hair,  tied  up  with  a  mournful  black  ribbon.  I 
called  her  by  every  tender  name  I  could  think  of.  I 
wanted  to  take  her  into  my  very  inmost  soul  and  shield 
lier  from  the  sorrow  that  had  shaken  her  so  deeply.  She 
was  pale  and  thin,  and  seemed  too  feeble  to  Avalk ;  I  led 
her  to  a  garden-seat  and  drew  her  within  the  shelter  of 
my  arms.  Poor  motherless  girl,  her  black  gown  made 
lier  look  so  white  and  ill,  and  she  seemed  so  helpless  in 
her  grief,  that  my  heart  ached  bitterly  for  her. 

For  a  long  time  she  could  only  say,  between  her  sobs, 
"Oh,  mama,  dear  mama!"  At  length  her  violent  burst 
of  grief  exhausted  itself,  and  she  spoke  of  her  terrible 
loss  quietly,  but  with  a  mournful  calm  that  told  how 
deep  the  wound  had  been. 

"  Ho ./  can  I  live  without  her  ?  "  she  said,  piteously. 

"My  darling,  do  you  remember  that  night,  so  long  ago, 
when  I  arrived  in  England,  a  weeping,  desolate  little 
orphan,  how  you  comforted  me  and  made  life  brighter 
for  me.  Let  me  try  now  to  do  as  you  did  then.  You 
have  your  father,  and  you  have  me.  You  must  live 
for  us." 

"  Poor  papa !  he  is  all  I  have  beside  you,  Felix,  you 
nmst  stay  here  with  us.  I  can  never  leave  papa,  now, 
and  I  need  you  so  much  to  help  me  bear  this  burden  of 
sorrow." 

"My  dear  Dorethea,  I  will  do  as  you  wish.  My  life 
is  yours  to  use  as  you  see  fit,  only  let  me  try  to  make 
you  happier."  With  these  words  T  thought  I  renounced 
all  control  of  my  own  destiny,  and  at  that  moment  I 
fancied  myself  more  than  blest  to  belong  soul  and  body 
to  that  frail,  weeping  girl. 


k 


250 


THE   STOUY   OF   AN    KNTHU81AST. 


II. 

A  FEW  weeks  after  my  arrival  at  Hartlmoor  Hall,  I 
made  a  curious  discovery,  which  awakened  all  my  old 
feelings  in  regard  to  the  lost  picture. 

"  My  insanity  had  returned  in  full  force,"  Lord  Hard- 
moor  said  angrily  and  contemptuously. 

In  looking  back  now,  after  my  bitter  disappointments 

and  losses,  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  Dorethea's  father 

was  not  very  far  wrong  when  he  said  he  was  not  inclined 

■  to  trust  his  daughter's  happiness  to  a  man  who  had  such 

a  small  stock  of  common-sense  as  to  leave  her  and  fly 

off  on  a  wild-goose  chase  for  nothing  —  merely  nothing. 

This  was  the  nothing  that  started  the  old  flame,  which 

had  only  been  smouldering  for  six  years,  and  which  had 

been  waiting  for  the  first  breath  to  fan  it  to  life.     One 

morning  I  was  looking  over  an  album  of   engravings 

from  works  of  the  old  masters.     It  lay  on  a  table  in  the 

drawing-room,  and  I  had  opened  it  several  times,  but 

'  had  not  examined  the  contents  carefully;  on  this  day 

I  was  waiting  for  Dorethea  to  ride  in  the  park  with  me, 

and  took  up  the  book  to  while  away  the  time.     Turning 

over  the  leaves  indifferently,  I  came  upon  a  picture  that 

startled  me  like  a  flash  of  lightning  from  a  clear  sky. 

It  was  an  engraving  of  the  head  with  the  black  berretta. 

In  a  moment  the  picture  swam  before  my  eyes,  misty, 

uncertain,  and  so  closely  was  it  interwoven  with  the 

memory  of  my  childhood  that  I  could  not  tell  whether 

it  was  my  father's  face  or  my  mother's  features  that 

floated  before  my  blurred  sight.     I  was  dizzy  and  faint ; 

a  rushing,  surging  sound  filled  the  room,  something  of 

the  sensation  that  I  had  felt  twice  before  in  my  life ; 


r 
t 

h 
f 

ti 

t: 

V 

h 

e 
b 
w 
s< 

a; 
ni 
b( 

(M 
g< 

H 

fa 

si 
ai 


lUSIAST. 


Hardmoor  Hall,  I 
akened  all  my  old 

'ovce,"  Lord  Hard- 

ir  disappointments 
b  Dorethea's  father 
he  was  not  inclined 
man  who  had  such 

leave  her  and  fly 
—  merely  nothing, 
le  old  flame,  which 
\TS,  and  which  had 
m  it  to  life.  One 
um  of  engravings 
y  on  a  table  in  the 

several  times,  but 
'fully ;  on  this  day 

the  park  with  me, 
he  time.  Turning 
ipon  a  picture  that 
J  from  a  clear  sky. 

the  black  berretta. 
re  my  eyes,  misty, 
terwoven  with  the 
Id  not  tell  whether 
her's  features  that 
as  dizzy  and  faint ; 
oom,  something  of 
I  before  in  my  life ; 


'"ti'P'.wi" 


qHXtHPw  iiiMJwipii 


THH  stuancp:  story  op  a  I'Kjture.        251 

the  first  time,  on  the  morning  when  my  uncle  Lorrimer 
destroyed  my  drawing,  and  again  when  1  read  my  fath- 
er's journal.  To  gain  possession  of  myself,  I  was 
obliged  to  close  my  eyes  and  make  a  strong  effort  of  will 
and  reason  over  my  physical  weakness.  Then  I  exam- 
ined the  picture  with  a  heavily  throbbing  heart  and 
hands  that  shook  like  one  stricken  with  sudden  palsy. 

Yes,  it  was  the  picture,  the  long  lost  picture, — or 
rather  a  shadow  of  it,  —  and  I  had  found  it  in  England. 
On  closer  examination,  I  discovered  that  the  engraving 
had  not  been  copied  from  a  painting  but  from  a  care- 
fully executed  drawing  of  the  Raphael.  It  was  unmis- 
takable, even  to  the  pattern  of  the  slender  gold  threads 
that  outlined  the  figures  of  the  embroidery  on  the  broad 
velvet  collar. 

Where  had  Lord  Hardmoor  found  this  picture,  and  had 
he  recognized  it  as  a  copy  of  my  father's  painting  ?  The 
engraving  was  handsomely  mounted  on  thick  paper,  and 
bound  with  some  fifty  others  in  rich  leather  covers.  It 
was  evidently  one  of  those  collections  of  copies  from 
some  foreign  gallery  which  travellers  often  bring  home 
as  a  souvenir  of  their  wanderings.  There  was  no  name, 
no  indication  whatever  to  show  where  the  engraving  had 
been  made,  or  where  the  original  was  to  be  found  ;  how- 
ever, it  was  a  clew,  and  I  resolved  to  hold  on  to  it. 

While  I  was  debating  in  my  mind  the  best  means  of 
getting  the  information  I  required  without  exciting  Lord 
Hardmoor's  suspicion,  Dorethea  entered  with  a  brighter 
face  than  I  had  seen  for  many  a  day. 

"  I  am  sorry  I  have  kept  you  waiting,"  she  said,  as 
she  drew  on  her  gloves;  "but  I  see  you  have  been 
amused.     You  have  been  in  good  company." 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  as  carelessly  as  I  possibly  could, 


TIIK   STOUY   or    AN    KNTHITSIAS'I 


"  tl)ey  are  lino  copios  from  many  cclcbratod  pictures. 
Where  did  you  get  the  allHim,  Doretliea?" 

"  It  belongs  to  Count  von  llardenburg.  He  brought 
it  down  some  time  ago  to  show  to  dear  mama.  It 
amused  her  to  look  at  pict\ires  when  she  did  not  care 
to  read  or  even  to  listen  to  reading.  She  was  very  fond 
of  some  of  these  engravings,  especially  that  Hue  head  of 
a  youth  in  a  black  cap.  She  always  said  that  a  beautiful 
soul  seemed  to  look  out  of  the  face  — a  strong,  sweet 
soul,  that  soothed  and  comforted  her.  And,  by  the  way, 
Felix,  if  it  will  not  make  you  vain,  I  will  tell  you  that 
once,  when  we  were  speaking  of  you,  she  said  the  picture 
reminded  her  of  your  face  when  you  were  moved  by 
some  strong  feeling." 

"Do  you  know  where  Count  von  Hardenburg  made 
the  collection  ? "  I  asked,  with  such  eagerness  that  I 
feared  my  manner  would  betray  my  anxiety. 

"  I  think  he  said  they  were  engravings  from  original 
pictures  in  the  galleries  of  Vienna." 

Opening  the  book,  I  turned  to  the  head  with  the 
black  berretta,  and  said,  while  I  examined  it  critically : 
"Your  mother  was  correct  in  her  judgment.  This  is 
the  gem  of  the  collection ;  I  think  it  is  a  copy  from 
Eaphael.' 

"  Yes,  Count  von  Hardenburg  said  it  was  from  one  of 
his  original  drawings,  or  something  of  the  kind.  Papa 
can  tell  you  all  about  them,  as  the  Count  explained  them 
all  to  him.  You  know,  the  Count  is  a  great  collector  and 
claims  to  have  copies,  either  paintings,  drawings,  or  en- 
gravings, of  every  known  work  of  the  old  masters.  I 
shall  be  glad  when  you  can  meet  him.  You  will  find  him 
very  interesting.  Papa  says  the  Count  has  educated  him 
in  art.    But  let  us  go.    It  is  nearly  lunch  time,  and  I  must 


■•T?  i""*'  ••*"■ 


U8IAST. 

Icbratod  pictures, 
lu'ii?" 

urg.     He  brought 

dear  mama.     It 

she  did  not  care 

he  was  very  fond 

{  that  tine  head  of 

id  that  a  beautiful 

—  u  strong,  sweet 

And,  by  the  way, 

will  tell  you  that 

he  said  the  picture 

II  were  moved  by 

Hardenburg  made 
eagernes.s  that  1 
ixiety. 
ings  from  original 

he  head  with  the 
lined  it  critically : 
idgment.  This  is 
it  is  a  copy  from 

it  was  from  one  of 
f  the  kind.  Papa 
mt  explained  them 
great  collector  and 
;s,  drawings,  or  en- 
[le  old  masters.  I 
You  will  find  him 
it  has  educated  him 
ch  time,  and  I  must 


THE  STKANOR   STOItY  OP"   A    fICTlTBE. 


253 


,i,'t't  hael;  to  read  to  papa  directly  after.     lie  is  so  sad, 
and  is  so  nnicli  alone  in  iiis  study.     Poor  dear  papa!" 

Alter  hiiieii  Duretliea  read  a  while  to  her  father  and 
then  went  to  \w.v  room  to  write  letters.  Lord  Hardmoor 
was  alone  in  his  study,  and,  taliing  tlie  allmm  witli  me, 
I  liiioeked  at  his  door,  and  asked  liim  if  I  could  iiavo 
some  conversation  with  liim  on  a  matter  of  importance. 

"  Certainly  ;  come  in,"  he  replied,  cordially.  "  I  am 
so  much  alone  that  I  am  becoming  morbid.  I  must 
bestir  myself,  and  get  out  these  fiue  days.  I  am  glad 
you  i)ersnaded  Doretliea  to  ri<Ie;  she  is  looking  much 
Ixftter.  I  hope  the  keen  edge  of  her  grief  is  wearing 
off.  Ah,  well !  she  is  young,  and  life  is  full  of  interest 
for  her.  I  must  get  about  some  my.self,  and  not  make 
her  unhupi)y  by  moping  here  alone.  I  have  been  want- 
ing to  talk  with  you  about  your  plans,  and  now  is  as 
good  a  time  as  any.  Of  course  you  know  that  your 
marriage  must  be  deferred  until  Dorethea's  year  of 
mourning  expires.  Wliat  do  you  propose  to  do  in  the 
meantime  ?  " 

"I  propose  to  travel,"  I  replied,  laying  the  album  on 
the  table,  and  turning  the  pages  with  nervous  fingers. 
"  I  have  a  mission  to  fulHl  before  my  marriage  can  take 
place,  unless  Dorethea  can  join  me  iu  my  pilgrimage." 

"  A  mission.  Wliat  mission  ?  Pray  explain  your- 
self," said  Lord  Hardmoor,  impatiently. 

"I  told  you  of  it  years  ago,"  I  returned,  calmly  and 
firmly.  "I  have  not  found  the  Raphael,  and  ray  search 
is  not  over  yet.  That  is  the  mission  I  refer  to,  and  I 
consider  it  sacred." 

"Sacred!  fiddlesticks!"  interrupted  Lord  Hardmoor, 
testily.  "You  talk  the  most  absurd  nonsense.  Is  it 
possible  you  still  entertain  that  childish  idea?— and  at 


MHMIllii 


iMttHW 


254 


THR  STORY   OF   AN   KNTHUSIAST. 


Buch  a  timo  too.?  I  thouf,'lit  you  had  more  serious  mat- 
ters to  think  of.  Good  Heavens!  liow  can  I  ever  give 
])oretliea  U)  you  !  You  will  go  dragging  licr  all  over  the 
world  wlienever  this  mad  idea  seizes  you.  It  is  ridicu- 
lous ;  it  is  unheard  of.  I  really  am  beginning  to  think 
that  you  are  a  monomaniac." 

I  waited  jialiently  until  his  ebullition  of  anger  had 
spent  itself,  and  then  I  said,  quietly  and  persuasivcdy  :  — 
"You  do  not  understand  me,  sir  ;  or  else  you  wilfully 
misrepresent  me.  It  is  no  insane  idea.  It  has  been  the 
intention  of  my  life  to  rectify,  if  possible,  a  serious  mis- 
take, A  work  of  Raphael  that  cost  part  of  my  father's 
fortune  "  — 

"There,  stop!"  interrupted  Lord  Ilardmoor, violently. 
"I  am  tired  of  that.  I  am  losing  all  patience  with  you. 
If  you  insist,  we  shall  certainly  end  by  (luarrelling." 

"I  beg  of  you,"  I  urged,  calmly,  "to  listen  to  me. 
You  say  yourself  that  I  must  wait  a  year  for  Dorethea, 
and  I  intend  to  employ  that  time  in  visiting  the  princi- 
pal cities  of  Europe,  which  I  have  not  yet  seen  ;  to  in- 
spect the  public  and  private  collections.  In  fact,  to 
make  every  effort  to  discover  the  picture.  If  I  fail  I 
give  you  my  word  to  discontinue  my  search  as  far  as  it 
interferes  with  my  domestic  and  social  duties ;  and  to 
settle  down  and  become,  as  you  say,  a  respectable  mem- 
ber of  society." 

"  And  if  you  succeed  in  finding  the  picture,  what  great 
good  will  it  do  yon  ?  " 

"  I  will  convince  the  world  that  my  father  was  correct 
in  his  judgment,  and  was  not  the  ignorant  dupe  of  dis- 
honest dealers,  as  you  believe.  And  to  do  this  I  will 
make  any  sacrifice  that  will  not  affect  Dorethea's  future 
welfare." 


II : 


r^m 


HAST. 

ore  serious  mat- 
can  I  ever  give 
her  all  over  the 
J.  It  is  ridicu- 
;iiuiing  to  think 

n  of  ans^or  had 
persuasively:  — 
Iso  you  wilfully 
It  has  been  the 
e,  a  serious  mis- 
t  of  my  father's 

ilnioor,  violently, 
tience  with  you. 
iiuarrelling." 
to  listen  to  me. 
ar  for  Dorothea, 
liting  the  princi- 
yet  seen  ;  to  in- 
ms.  In  fact,  to 
ure.  If  I  fail  I 
irch  as  far  as  it 
,1  duties ;  and  to 
•espectable  mem- 

cture,  what  great 

ather  was  correct 
■ant  dupe  of  dis- 
,0  do  this  I  will 
Dorethea's  future 


TIIK   HTKANfir,   STOIVV   OP   A   PlCTrUK.  irtl") 

"How  will  you  recognize  the  picture.  Vou  can't  re- 
ineinher  it  iifter  all  these  years." 

"I  remenilu'r  every  lino  and  siiad.-  of  it.  I  renu-ni- 
I)er  it  as  I  remenilier  my  fatlier's  face,  wliieh  is  always 
with  mi',  unehangcd  !.y  time."  Tlien  taking  the  allium 
I  laid  it  open  lu-fore  him,  and  jiointed  to  the  head  with 
the  l)la(!k  lierretta.  "  Did  yon  ever  see  the  ori^'iual  of 
this  engraving?"  I  asked,  while  I  watched  the  expres- 
sion of  his  face  Avith  the  keenest  interest. 

"N(!ver,  to  my  knowledge,"  ho  jeplicd,  after  glanc- 
ing at  it  carelessly.  "  It  is  a  (ropy  of  an  original  draw- 
ing  by  Uaphael.  Count  von  I[ardeid)urg  told  uie  where 
the  drawing  is,  but  I  have  forgotten  ;  I  think,  however, 
that  it  is  in  some  (Jerman  collection." 

"  This,"  I  said,  laying  my  finger  on  the  jiictnre,  "  is  a 
copy  of  my  father's  liaphael." 

"  There  you  are  off  at  a  tangent  again  !  Now,  see  how 
easily  you  may  be  mistaken.  1  remember  distinctly  that 
Oount  von  Hardenburg  told  me  that  it  was  engraved 
from  a  drawing.  It  is  particularly  impressed  on  my 
mind,  because  ho  pointed  out  the  manner  of  the  manijiu- 
lation,  which,  he  .says,  is  entirly  ditTerent  from  any  other 
master;  and  ho  also  says  that  ho  had  seen  the  original, 
and  that  it  is  in  red  chalk.  Your  father's  i)ictnre  was 
a  painting.  How,  then,  with  the  utmost  stretch  of  your 
too  vivid  imagination,  can  you  pronounce  it  a  copy  of 
that  ?  " 

"  You  mistake  my  meaning,"  I  replied.  "  I  know,  as 
well  as  Count  von  Hardenburg,  that  this  engraving  is 
copied  from  a  drawing  ;  but  the  drawing  was  made  from 
that  picture  you  sold  in  Paris  as  an  Andrea  Mantegna." 

"That  is  most  likely  !  Do  you  suppose  Raphael  copied 
his  picture  with  red  chalk,  after  he  painted  it  ?    I  tell 


iiiiiiiiini 


iM 


TIIR   STORY  OF   AK    RXTIIUSIAST. 


you  the  ilmwiug  is  by  Uiiphiwl.  H'  you  will  tuk.-  iluit 
iiiii<,'i>>»'y'"n  «l!i««  !i"'l  '""'^  closely,  you  will  s.-e  in  tlu! 
eiiibroiilt'i-y  ou  tlit!  corner  of  tlie  colliir,  tins  letters  K.  V. 
which   Uaiihiicl  of    Uibiiio  \i8ecl  fre(iaeutly  as  a  M^w.i- 

ture." 

"This  is  still  more  rouviiiciiiK',"  I  replied,  after  exann- 
iiiiif,'  the  letters  carefully.  "  It  is,  then,  the  original 
study  for  tho  painting.  Kvery  line  and  feature  of  this 
driiwini,'  and  of  my  father's  picture  arts  iihuitical." 

"Good  Heavens^!  you  exasperate  nu'  beyoiul  endu- 
rance. Do  you  pretend  to  say  tliat  after  more  than 
twelve  years  you  can  remember  every  line  and  feature 
of  anythiuf,',  no  matter  what  it  may  be  V  It  is  simply 
impossible." 

"1  do,"  I  said,  lirmly,  "and  I  will  yet  i)rove  it  to 
you.  I  will  follow  up  this  clew  until  I  discover  the 
original,  and  trace  it  back  to  the  sale  in  Taris." 

"And  when  you  have  found  it,  what  do  you  intend 
to  do?" 

"  Purchase  it,  if  possible." 

"  Aud  if  it  is  a  Raphael,  as  you  say  it  is,  it  is  worth  as 
much  as  your  estate.  Do  you  intend  to  sacrifice  your 
property  for  it  ?  " 

"  If  it*s  nec(,'ssary  I  shall  do  so,"  I  returned,  in  a  tone 
that  must  have  carried  conviction  with  it,  for  Lord  Hard- 
moor  started  from  his  chair,  i)ale  and  excited,  aud  said, 
in  a  harsh,  inflexible  tone  :  — 

"  Then  understaiul  me  fully,  ^farkland,  and  remember 
that  I  am  as  mmdi  in  earnest  as  you  are,  aud  have 
much  more  at  stake  — nothing  less  than  the  welfare  of 
my  child.  If  you  perpetrate  such  a  piece  of  folly,  if 
you  squander  any  part  of  your  income,  which,  as  you 
kuow,  is  barely  sufficient  to  support  my  daughter  iu  a 


-■^^mstam^^y 


will  tiiki-  Unit 
vill  set;  ill  tilt! 
n!  Ifltrrs  K.  II. 
tly  as  a  si^'iia- 

inl,  after  t'xaini- 
II,  tlio  ori},'iiial 
IVatiirt!  of  this 
entical." 

beyond  eiidu- 
ftei  more  tliaii 
ine  u»tl  feature 
'f    It  is  si  111  ply 

yet  prove  it  to 
I  discover  the 

'aris." 
do  you  iuteud 


9,  it  is  worth  as 
J  sacritiee  your 

urned,  in  a  tone 
,  for  Lord  llard- 
ceited,  and  said, 

I,  and  venieniber 
are,  and  have 
I  the  welfare  of 
iece  of  folly,  if 
,  which,  as  yo\i 
y  daughter  iu  a 


^Sl^S&lSSSTesR. 


^ 


THE  RTKAN<1K   STOKY   OK   A    I'HTl'ltK. 


257 


way  Huitahlo  to  Ii.t  pnsition,  she  shall  never  he  your 
wife.  1  will  take  her  away  from  you  at  tlu^  altar.  Voii 
are  insane,  and  I  should  he  as  crazy  as  you  are  to  allow 
her  to  marry  you." 

My  heart  stood  still.  For  a  moment  I  seemed  to  bo 
stiHiiif,',  but  I  maiia-,'ed  to  say  quite  calmly:  "My  dear 
Ii(u-d  Ilardmoor,  don't  excite  yourself  needlessly.  1  trust 
I  shall  never  find  my.self  in  such  a  painful  extremity. 
My  love  for  J)orethea  is  as  dear  as  my  life.  1  would 
.';:icrilic(?  one  as  soon  as  the  other.  Let  us  look  calmly 
at  the  situation.  Tliere  is  nothing  tragic  iu  it.  1  will 
go  away  for  a  year,  and  I  beg  o'f  you  to  say  nothing  to 
any  one  of  my  intention.  Allow  me  to  pursue  my  search 
quietly  and  secretly;  and,  as  I  said,  if  I  fail,  I  will  re- 
linquish  the  hope  of  ever  finding  it,  and  will  then  devote 
the  remainder  of  my  days  to  Dorethea  and  liappiness." 
I  held  out  my  hand;  he  took  it  half  reluctantly.  "For- 
give  me  if  I  have  worried  you." 

He  turned  away  suddenly,  threw  himself  into  his 
ohair,  and  burst  into  tears.  "Go  away  and  carry  out 
your  plans  !  "  he  cried,  in  a  broken  voice :  "  I  can't  argue 
with  you  now.  I  am  too  much  unnerved,  too  weak  from 
trouble,  to  cope  with  such  a  nature  as  yours.  You  are 
stubborn  to  folly.  You  will  make  a  wreck  of  your  life 
yet,  if  you  are  left  to  yourself,  liut,  for  Heaven's  sake, 
spare  Dorethea.  If  you  make  her  unhappy,  you  will 
kill  me.  She  is  all  I  have  to  live  for,  and  she  shall  not 
be  sacriticed.  Now  go,  50,  —  I  am  worn  out,  —  and  don't 
let  me  see  you  until  you  are  more  reasonable." 

What  could  I  say  ?  As  I  looked  at  the  cold,  proud 
man,  so  weakened  by  his  recent  bereavement,  I  felt  guilty 
of  the  utmost  selfishness  and  perversity,  and  the  mem- 
ory of  words  I  had  beard  long  ago  floated  warningly 


—^<MM>iifiilW"lililjirini  III  •  r  iinlfcll  ii0mmm*ttn^ig0m 


imhiiri^B/ 


iii«'»if->1ii«iW^'»-^»tii'j^' 


258 


THE   STORV    OF   AN    ENTHUSIAST. 


through  my  mind:   "You  will  become  the  slave  of  an 
idea,  and  through  it  rush  obstinately  to  your  ruin." 


III. 

Possessed  by  an  inipetnosity  that  I  could  not  control, 
a  feverish  excitement  caused  by  the  sight  of  the  fatal 
picture,  I  was  anxious  to  be  away  on  my  wanderings, 
and  yet  I  was  restrained  by  my  love  for  Dorethca,  and 
my  sorrow  at  the  thought  of  leaving  her  for  another 
year.  Again  the  old  restlessness  and  eagerness  of  pur- 
suit controlled  me,  urged  me,  drove  me  onward.  I  could 
not  remain  inactive.  There  were  still  some  hours  before 
dinner  at  my  disposal,  and  a  rapid  walk  would  allay  my 
excitement.  A  keen  autumn  wind  was  blowing  when  I 
rushed  through  the  park  and  into  the  open  country,  as 
I  had  done  years  before,  when  I  first  saw  my  destiny 

before  me. 

What  was  the  peculiar  power  of  that  fatal  picture  ? 
The  strange,  weird  fascination  of  it,  that  at  the  sight  of 
it,  the  memory  of  it,  my  whole  being  was  disturbed  ?     It 
drew  me  to  it  as  the  moon  draws  the  tides.     Through  it, 
and  in  it,  I  seemed  to  have  a  twofold  existence.     Some- 
where, I  knew  not  where,  another  part  of  my  being  was 
compelling  me  to  seek  it,  to  unite  my  life  with  it.    For 
the  first  time  I  felt  that  there  was  some  mystic  bond 
between  it  and  me  — that  in  some  mysterious  manner  it 
controlled  and  fashioned  my  destiny.     There  was  a  phys- 
ical as  well  as  an  intellectual  cause  that  connected  me 
with  it.     Like  a  voice  out  of  the  past,  Pv.  Langham's 
words  by  my  sick-bed  occurred  to  me  — I  had  inherited 
this  strange  impression  from  my  mother.     Had  not  Lady 
Hardmoor   noticed   ^nd  spoken  of    a  resemblance   of 


SIAST. 


the  slave  of  an 


your  ruin. 


:roul(l  not  control, 
iulit  of  the  fatal 

my  wanderings, 
"or  Dorethea,  and 

her  for  another 
eagerness  of  pur- 
onward.  I  could 
jome  hours  before 
ic  would  allay  my 
i  blowing  when  I 

open  country,  as 

saw  my  destiny 

lat  fatal  picture? 
lat  at  the  sight  of 
as  disturbed  ?     It 
ides.     Through  it, 
existence.     Some- 
c  of  my  being  was 
life  with  it.    For 
some  mystic  bond 
sterious  manner  it 
There  was  a  phys- 
that  connected  me 
ast,  Pv.  Langhani's 
—  I  had  inherited 
er.     Had  not  Lady 
a  fesemblance   of 


THE  STRANGE  STOKY   OF  A  riCTDRE. 


259 


features  and  expression  —  as  though  my  soul  looked 
through  the  eyes  of  the  picture  ?  The  eyes  of  the  picture 
that  haunted  me  always,  that  searched  into  my  heart, 
that  appealed,  urged,  i)lea  led.  The  impression  was  a  part 
of  my  nature ;  it  was  useless  to  combat  the  imperious 
demands  of  myself  for  this  other  self.  In  spite  of  the 
struggle,  I  felt  that  I  must  succumb,  and  follow  wlici-- 
ever  it  led  me. 

But  why  should  I  succumb  to  this  sentiment  —  this  in- 
sane folly,  as  Lord  Hard  moor  characterized  it  —  and  per- 
haps mar  Uiy  whole  future  ?  Was  I  not  a  responsible 
human  being  ?  had  I  not  my  destiny  in  my  own  hands  ? 
was  I  not  so  far  the  arbiter  of  my  own  fate  that  I  could 
remain  in  p]ngland  and  adopt  the  life  that  had  been 
planned  out  for  me,  relinquish  this  seardi,  forget  this 
alluring  picture,  cast  off  the  spell  that  bound  me  to  it 
and  it  to  me,  and  live  a  peaceful,  rational  existence,  un- 
disturbed by  any  inordinate  love  or  enthusiasm  for  art  ? 
Would  it  not  be  better  to  give  up  painting,  to  cut  myself 
loose  from  all  its  associations,  to  forget  that  I  had  ever 
listened  to  the  divine  voice,  that  I  had  ever  seen  visions 
of  beauty,  or  dreamed  of  empyrean  heights  where  every 
ambition  of  my  soul  could  be  satisfied  ?  Ah  !  whither 
was  this  worship  of  art  leading  me  ?  Was  it  all  false, 
unreal,  a  fata  morgana  to  lure  me  onward  to  ruin  ? 

But  to  give  it  up  —  what  did  that  mean  to  me  ?  I 
was  appalled  at  the  desolation  it  implied.  It  was  strip- 
ping life  bare  of  every  rharm.  Even  love  was  undesir- 
able. Wealth,  honor,  name,  all  were  but  jangling,  brazen 
sounds.  Suddenly  it  seemed  as  if  all  the  beauty  and 
harmony  had  gone  out  of  nature.  I  stood  still  and 
looked  around  me.  Above,  the  cold  leaden  sky ;  below, 
the  bleak,  dreary  moor,  dead  and  colorless, — uot  one  gleam 


^^..^         -   ,  ..^,       ■iiil'i]  I  -ll-i-i  )  I'iii^iftui         iiiiii'ini     llllHMllliBr 


260 


THE   STORY   OF   AN    KNTHUSIA.ST, 


I 


m\ 


of  sunlight,  nor  the  ghmcing  wing  of  a  bird.  Tlie  harsh, 
jagged  outline  of  tlie  rock-bound  hills;  the  keen  wind, 
that  dried  the  very  marrow  in  one's  bones ;  the  op2)res- 
sive  silence  and  torpor,  were  all  emblems  of  my  future, 
denuded  of  the  beauty  of  art,  and  its  gentle  influences. 
I  felt  benumbed  and  cold.  A  bitter  resolve  was  forming 
itself  in  my  mind.  I  would  force  myself  to  be  stoical, 
imi)ervious  to  every  tender  sentiment.  I  would  become 
man  of  stone,  and  crush  and  kill  my  soft,  impressionable 
nature.  In  that  way  I  could  conquer  myself,  overcome 
my  ideals,  and  lind  a  fictitious  strength  to  endure  the 
severe  and  practical. 

And  so  the  everlasting  debate  went  on.  I  was  weary 
with  my  rapid  walk,  and  exhausted  with  ray  mental 
struggle,  and  yet  I  was  no  nearer  the  decision  that  was 
to  make  or  mar  my  future,  llemain  in  England,  give 
up  my  search,  give  up  art  ?  —  or  follow  the  voice  of  my 
soul?  It  was  the  turning-point  in  my  destiny,  and  the 
choice  must  be  made  then  .and  there.  It  was  an  awful 
hour  to  me.  I  was  suifering  physically  as  well  as  men- 
tally. A  strange  weakness  came  over  me ;  my  whole 
frame  trembled  as  if  a  sudden  palsy  had  smitten  me. 
Enable  to  proceed  larther,  I  threw  myself  prone  upon 
the  ground,  and  again  reviewed  the  harrowing  situa- 
tion. I  thought  of  Mi'i  Lonely  j  he  seemed  to  look  at  me 
padly  and  reproachfully,  I  seejned  to  hear  him  say,  in  his 
deep,  c^lm  voice,  '<  You  ave  the  slave  of  an  idea.  Your 
devotion  to  a  shadow,  to  a  dream,  will  lead  you  to  disap- 
pointment and  eternal  regret."  Then  liiy  mother's  soft 
eyes  and  tender,  girlish  face  came  before  me,  and  her 
soothing  words  filled  me  with  peace.  If  my  mortal  ears 
did  not  hear  them,  my  soul  did.  "  Do  not  struggle 
against  your  iove  for  the  beautiful  |  it  is  your  birthright. 


■"^SetMSRSS^SfS"' 


AST. 


THE  STRANGE   STORY   OF  A   PICTURE. 


261 


(1.  Tlie  harsh, 
he  keen  wind, 
s ;  tlie  oppres- 
of  my  future, 
itle  influences. 
iQ  WHS  forming 
;  to  be  stoical, 
would  become 
impressionable 
f'self,  overcome 
to  endure  the 

I  was  weary 
th  ray  mental 
'.ision  that  was 

England,  give 
lie  voice  of  my 
jstiny,  and  the 
}  was  an  awful 
,s  well  as  men- 
ne ;  my  whole 
,d  smitten  me. 
(If  prone  upon 
rrowing  situa- 
i  to  look  at  me 

him  say,  in  his 
m  idea.  Your 
I  you  to  disap- 
f  mother's  soft 
e  me,  and  her 
ny  mortal  ears 
)  not  struggle 
our  birthright. 


You  inherited  it  from  me,  your  mother.  I  endowed  you 
with  it,  before  you  saw  the  light.  There  is  nothing  mys- 
terious or  unnatural  in  the  attraction  the  picture  has  for 
you.  It  was  impressed  ou  you  from  the  moment  my 
eyes  first  looked  upon  it.  I  loved  the  picture.  Your 
father  loved  it.  We  worshipped  it  together,  as  the 
noble  and  true  worship  what  is  noble  and  true.  Follow 
the  voice  of  your  own  soul,  the  impulses  of  your  own 
heart.  Do  not  strive  to  kill  the  ideal.  It  is  one  thing 
in  us  that  is  God-like.  Live  your  own  life,  love  your 
own  loves,  and  work  out  your  own  plans.  Another  can- 
not judge  for  ^ou,  for  another  is  not  possessed  of  the 
secret  of  your  soul.  Follow  the  path  you  see  plainly 
before  you,  no  matter  whether  it  be  smooth  or  rough. 
Only  follow  it ;  it  is  marked  out  by  your  Creator." 

For  some  time  I  lay  there  listening  to  the  voice  of 
Nature.  I  was  calmed,  convinced,  resolved ;  again  my 
idea  was  victorious,  again  my  impressions  conquered  my 
reason.  It  was  Nature.  It  was  therefore  right.  The 
struggle  was  over.  The  moral  conflict  had  ended  us  I 
wished  it  to.  I  had  simply  listened  to  the  voice  of 
Nature,  and  henceforth  there  was  no  more  doubt,  no 
more  indecision.  My  soul  was  as  immovably  fixed  in  its 
purpose  as  were  the  surrounding  hills  upon  their  rocky 
base.  My  bodily  weakness  vanished  with  my  mental 
vacillation,  and  I  sprang  to  my  feet  with  new  life  and 
energy,  just  in  time  to  see  the  setting  sun  look  througli 
a  rift  in  a  black  cloud,  before  night  hid  him  from  the 
world. 

How  that  one  gleam  of  yellow  light  transfigured 
everything:  now  I  saw  the  wide  moor  resplendent  in 
purple  and  gold,  and  even  the  barren  hills  and  brown 
crags  were  transmuted  into  chalcedony  and  chrysolite. 


m^i:imffi:" 


...■,. ,,.„  -.  n, - ■..^;..»,  -^.:...-.-,^,..  - . .  -. -jjj  jf,|gpaajij,vi^-f^~^^^--^a 


262 


THE   STOltY   OF   AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


The  cutting  wind  had  softened  to  a  low  sighing  breeze, 
that  rustled  and  murmured  among  the  gorse  and  tangled 
grass.  The  i)urple  and  gold  changed  to  violet  and  pale 
saffron;  a  slender  slip  of  a  moon  sat  like  a  silver  boat 
on  a  sea  of  black  cloud,  convoyed  by  one  serene  star  on 
her  journey  Avestward;  again  I  was  in  harmony  with 
Nature ;  the  passion  and  despair  vanished  from  my  soul 
as  the  last  beam  of  day  laid  its  peaceful  benediction 
upon  me. 

When  I  returned  to  the  Hall,  it  was  near  the  dinner 
hour ;  therefore,  1  dressed  hurriedly,  in  the  hope  that  I 
might  see  Dorethea  alone  in  the  dramng-room  a  few 
moments.  She  was  there,  and  was  evidently  waiting 
for  me,  for  when  I  entered  she  met  nie  with  a  nervous, 
anxious  manner,  and  said  reproachfully  :  — 

"Oh,  Felix!  how  could  you  quarrel  with  papa?" 

"My  dear  Dorethea,  you  are  mistaken,"  I  returned, 
gently. 

"  Then,  why  do  I  find  him  so  worried  and  excited  ?  I 
went  to  his  study,  to  try  to  induce  him  to  come  into  the 
drawing-room,  and  found  liim  quite  upset.  He  will  not 
even  dine  with  us,  and  he  says  that  you  have  been  very 
thoughtless  and  unkind." 

"  My  darling,  let  me  tell  you  the  facts  of  the  case.  I 
went  to  your  father,  after  you  left  him,  to  talk  to  him 
about  a  matter  of  the  greatest  importance  to  me,  when 
he  became  unreasonably  angry,  and  used  some  very  un- 
pleasant language,  which  T  did  not  resent,  because  he  is 
in  trouble,  and,  in  short,  because  he  is  your  father." 

"  Poor  papa !  Oh,  Felix,  how  could  you  annoy  him 
just  now  ?  " 

"  Dorethea,"  I  said,  speaking  to  her  severely  for  the 
first  time,  "  you  surely  cannot  think  that  I  am  capable 


VST. 


THE   STKANGE   STOKY   OF  A   PICTUUE. 


263 


ghing  breeze, 
e  and  tangled 
Lolet  and  pale 
a  silver  boat 
serene  star  on 
lannony  with 
from  my  soul 
d  benediction 

ixr  tlie  dinner 
110  hope  that  I 
g-room  a  few 
ently  waiting 
ith  a  nervous, 

L  papa  ?  " 

,"  I  returned, 

d  excited  ?     I 

come  into  the 

He  will  not 

lave  been  very 

•f  the  case.  I 
to  talk  to  him 
3  to  me,  when 
some  very  un- 
,  because  he  is 
r  father." 
ou  annoy  him 

iverely  for  the 
;  I  am  capable 


of  purposely  angering  your  father  at  all  — much  less 
now.  You  and  he  both  misunderstand  me.  My  time 
may  have  been  ill  chosen,  but  I  cannot  blame  myself 
for  your  father's  injustice  and  harshness.  I  certainly 
did  not  provoke  it." 

The  poor  girl  looked  at  me  for  a  moment  with  grieved 
surprise ;  thd  turned  proudly  away,  without  speaking. 

"  For  God's  sake  Dorethea,"  I  cried,  passionately,  "  do 
not  you  quarrel  with  me !  I  cannot  bear  it  now,  when  1 
have  to  say  good-by  to  you  for  a  year." 

"  Good-by  for  a  year  ?     What  do  you  mean,  Felix  ?  " 

I  hold  out  my  arms,  and  she  came  to  me  sobbing. 
"  You  surely  do  not  mean  to  go  away  for  so  long  !  " 

"  My  dearest,  I  must.  It  is  an  imperative  duty  that 
forces  me." 

"  Oh,  Felix !  I  am  so  unhappy  and  so  lonely ;  and 
poor  papa  is  quite  changed ;  I  need  you  so  mi; oh." 

My  heart  was  torn  within  me,  when  I  looked  at  her 
dear  face,  wet  with  tears  and  piteous  in  its  appealing 
sorrow. 

"  Dorethea,  I  suffer  more  to  leave  you  than  you  can 
to  have  me  go.  But  take  heart,  sweet  soul ;  this,  I  trust, 
will  be  our  last  parting.  Be  patient  with  me,  and  love 
me  faithfully,  for  without  your  love  I  should  be  ruined 
and  desolate." 

"  And  yet  you  leave  me,  merely  to  search  for  a  picture. 
Surely,  that  cannot  be  imperative." 

"  I  thought  you  would  approve,  and  bid  me  God-speed 
on  my  errand." 

"Oh,  Felix!  how  can  you  find  it,  after  all  these 
years  ?  I  think  papa  knows  best  when  he  says  you 
ought  to  give  it  up,  and  it  seems  as  though  you  love  the 
•picture  better  than  you  love  me." 


i 


1 


"" irir-iriiTikmMiM'iiiiifi ' 


i# 


r 


264 


THE  STOKV   OF   AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


Again  the  blue  eyes  overflowed,  and  again  my  heart 
bled  silently. 

"  Let  us  say  no  more,  my  darling,''  I  entreated ;  "  or 
we  may  come  to  misunderstand  each  otiier,  and  that  1 
could  not  endure.  AVe  have  but  little  time  togotlier; 
let  us  not  waste  it  in  idle  arguments.  I  must  leave  for 
London  in  the  morning,  and  I  shall  not  see  you  before  I 
set  out.  Walter  is  coming  to  dine,  and  there  Avill  be  no 
chance  for  conversation  of  a  private  nature.  Let  me 
tell  you  what  I  have  already  told  your  father.  You  do 
not  know  how  much  this  journey  is  to  me ;  but  I  would 
abandon  it  for  you,  my  love,  if  I  was  not  certain  that  I 
should  suffer  all  my  life  from  unrest  and  regret ;  sliould 
feel  that  I  had  failed  in  sometliing  I  might  have  accom- 
plished. In  short,  that  I  had  neglected  a  duty  I  owed 
my  dead  father.  This  journey  once  over  —  even  if  I  do 
not  succeed,  I  shall  have  done  my  utmost;  and  there 
■will  be  nothing  to  regret,  save  the  failure  ;  and  when  I 
return,  it  will  be  to  devote  the  remainder  of  my  life  to 
you.  And,  oh,  my  dearest !  never  doubt  my  love. 
Trust  me  and  love  me,  and  try  to  understand  me.  Your 
father's  nature  and  mine  are  widely  different.  He  can- 
not appreciate  the  sentiment  that  influences  me  ;  but  I 
do  not  blame  him.  He  thinks  as  the  world  thinks,  and 
he  has  little  sympathy  with  what  he  considers  foolish 
enthusiasm  and  romantic  ideas.  But  you,  my  love, 
you  must  know  me  better ;  you  must  estimate  me 
more  justly.  We  must  be  one  in  soul  and  feeling. 
Try  to  think  that  it  is  best  that  I  should  leave  you 
now  ;  and  be  the  brave,  sweet  soul  you  have  always 
been." 

"  Felix,  I  always  had  mama.  She  was  always  with 
me  to  help  me  "  —  another  burst   of  tears  —  another 


t  v  'Vilitirn 


ST. 

jain  my  heart 

itreatctl ;  "  or 
r,  and  that  1 
iiue  togotlier; 
lUst  leave  for 
;  you  before  I 
ere  Avill  be  uo 
lire.  Let  me 
her.  You  do 
,  but  I  would 
certain  that  I 
egret ;  should 
;  have  accom- 
1  duty  I  owed 
-  even  if  I  do 
st;  and  there 
;  and  when  I 
of  my  life  to 
iibt  my  love. 
,nd  me.  Your 
ent.  He  can- 
es me  ;  but  I 
id  thinks,  and 
siders  foolish 
'ou,  my  love, 
estimate  me 
and  feeling, 
uld  leave  you 
have  always 

3  always  with 
lars  —  another- 


THE  8TUAN0E   STOHY   OF   A   I'lCTURE. 


205 


tender  (faress,  and  a  few  low-spoken  words  of  love,  aiul 
Doretlioa  slipped  away  as  Walter  entered. 

A  few  moments  later  she  appeared  at  tlie  dinner-table, 
quite  calm,  but  her  sweet  eyes  were  stained  with  tears, 
and  her  face  pale  and  downcast. 

Walter  remained  until  late,  and  then  insisted  upon 
my  walking  with  him  to  the  east  gate.  WJien  1  re- 
turned, Dorethea  had  retired,  and  1  thought  I  should  see 
her  no  more  before  my  departure. 

With  a  heavy  heart  I  mounted  the  stairs  to  my  room, 
when  I  heard  light  footsteps  jtdvancing  through  the 
long  corridor,  and  a  little  black-robed  ligure  stood  before 
me. 

"  I  could  not  let  you  go,  dear  Felix,  Avithout  another 
word.  Do  not  thiiik  me  weak  and  childish ;  1  will  be 
strong  for  your  sake,  and  try  to  convince  papa  that  you 
are  right." 

Ah!  why  linger  over  that  exquisite  moment!  —  the 
bliss  and  pain  of  such  a  parting !  When  I  went  to  my 
room,  her  tears  were  still  on  my  face ;  but  a  heavy  load 
was  lifted  from  my  heart.  Dorethea  bade  me  go,  with 
her  love  and  blessing.  It  was  a  good  omen.  Surely,  I 
must  succeed. 


IV. 

Vienna.  —  I  have  been  here  for  more  than  a  month, 
iiiid  during  that  time  I  have  examined  every  collection, 
both  public  and  private,  that  I  can  gain  access  to,  and  I 
have  searched  into  the  hidden  recesses  of  every  dealer's 
portfolio  of  engravings  and  drawings,  and  have  failed 
to  find  a  duplicate  of  the  head  in  tne  black  berretta,  or 
anything  that  bears  a  likeness  to  it.     To  every  inquiry 


266 


THE  STORY  OF  AN  ENTHUSIAST. 


and  descriptidii  I  rccoivo  the  same  tliscouraging  nega- 
tive reply.  Anioii','  tlio  artiats  aiul  coiinoissours,  the  of- 
ficials of  public  collections,  and  owuor.s  of  rave  paintings, 
such  a  drawing  by  Raphael  has  never  been  hoard  of; 
nor  is  there  anything  among  the  original  studies  of  the 
old  masters  that  bears  the  least  resemblance  to  it. 
Therefore,  Count  von  Hardenburg  is  mistaken  about 
the  picture  being  in  Vienna. 

There  is  one  thing  which  is  a  serious  drawback  in 
my  search,  and  that  is  the  caution  with  which  I  am 
obliged  to  conduct  my  investigation.  I  fear  to  arouse 
any  interest  in  the  missing  original,  for  I  well  know  if 
it  were  once  pi'oven  to  be  a  llaphael,  I  should  have  no 
chance  of  getting  possession  of  it,  even  should  I  dis- 
cover it. 

However,  I  am  not  disheartened  by  my  failure  liere. 
I  know  the  picture  is  somewhere  in  the  world,  and  some 
day  I  shall  suddenly  come  upon  it;  perhaps  when  I 
least  expect  it. 

An  artist  told  me  yesterday  that  he  was  quite  certain 
he  had  seen  such  a  picture  as  I  described  in  the 
Hermitage  at  St.  Petersburg.  To-morrow  I  leave  for 
Bussia. 

•  •  •  •  • 

Berlin. — For  the  last  six  months  I  have  been  wan- 
dering in  the  north  of  Europe,  visiting  every  city  and 
town,  every  gallery,  palace,  and  museum,  where  pictures 
are  to  be  seen.  At  times  I  am  sure  I  have  made  myself 
a  nuisance  by  my  eagerness  and  insistence ;  and,  in  spite 
of  the  greatest  caution,  I  have  aroused  various  suspi- 
cions in  different  minds.  No  doubt  but  some  have 
thought  me  a  monomaniac ;  others,  an  artist  gone  mad 
OU  the  subject  of  original  drawings,  or  au  eccentric  con- 


liirm-ii  iiTfff-r" -'""^"'-"  '''""''»■" 


**iiii 


[AST. 

3ouragiiig  neg.a- 
)issoui's,  the  of- 
F  rave  paintings, 

been  heard  of ; 

studies  of  the 
mibhinco  to  it. 
mistaken  about 

us  drawback  in 

th  which  I  am 

fear  to  arouse 

I  well  know  if 

shouhl  have  no 

11  shoukl  I  dis- 

ny  failure  here, 
ivorld,  and  some 
erhaps  when  I 

[IS  quite  certain 
scribed  in  the 
ow  I  leave  for 


have  been  wan- 
every  city  and 
I,  where  pictures 
ve  made  myself 
ce ;  and,  in  spite 
d  various  suspi- 
but  some  have 
artist  gone  mad 
u  eccentric  con- 


THK  8TUANGE  STOUV  OF   A   I'ICTUHE. 


207 


noisseur  trying  to  make  a  now  discovery  in  the  history 
of  art. 

In  St.  Petersburg  I  was  closely  watched  as  a  suspect; 
and  my  prying  curiosity  aliout  pictures  was  considered  a 
ruse  to  get  acquainted  with  the  interior  arrangements 
of  the  Winter  J'aluee.  I  never  entered  tlie  Hermitage 
without  being  conseious  that  I  was  watched  closely  by  a 
detective,  who  often  engaged  me  in  eoiwersation  under 
the  incognito  of  a  fellow-traveller,  \isiug  all  liis  skill 
to  discover  what  nuinner  of  man  I  really  am,  and  why 
the  different  collections  can  be  nuitters  of  such  vital 
importance  to  me. 

OiH!  evening  my  valvt  de  j}hic,e  respectfully  intimated 
that  I  liad  better  leave  St  Teterslmrg  as  cpiickly  and 
quietly  as  possible,  as  1k>  had  reason  to  think  that  I 
might  be  detained  against  my  will  if  I  delayed  my  de- 
parture. 

The  next  day  I  was  on  my  way  to  ]\Ioscow. 

The  fartlier  I  go  the  more  interested  I  become.  Some- 
times T  am  possessed  by  a  spirit  of  restlessness,  and 
rush  from  place  to  place  so  hurriedly  and  excitedly  that 
those  wlio  do  not  understand  my  purpt.e  and  method 
under  my  eccentric  movements  may  well  think  I  am  a 
little  queer  and  unsettled  in  my  mind. 

A  few  days  ago  I  was  told  of  a  collection  of  old  draw- 
ings here  in  the  Royal  Gallery.  But  on  examining  all 
the  rooms  T  could  not  discover  it.  This  morning  1  lost 
my  patience,  and  questioned  the  custodian  so  sliarply 
that  he  looked  at  me  Avith  a  half-frightened  expression, 
and,  as  he  turned  away,  he  touched  his  forehead  signifi- 
cantly and  said  to  a  woman  who  was  copying  near, 
"that  I  was  a  half-crazy  English  artist,  who  had  wor- 
ried him  beyond  emlurance  about  original  drawings  by 


•rp:'?v^fWt!immwsfmwff:mm^, 


-Vi^}'-^    'AAimM^^M 


268 


THR   HTOUY   OP   AN    KNTIIUSIA8T. 


Kiii>hiU'l,  wliidi  T  insisted  were  there,  althmiRli  lie,  had 
told  1110  over  and  over  to  tlic  contrary.  Of  tM)Urse,  no 
one  Imt  an  insane  person  could  be  so  absurdly  trouble- 

some. 

Tlie  man's  words  startled  mo.  T  stood  still  and  tried 
to  think.  IVrhaiis  he  was  not  so  far  wrong.  IVrhaps  I 
was  bocoining  iiisano  on  tliis  one  idea.  Had  my  excita- 
ble nervons  organization  gained  the  ascendency,  and  was 
I  becoming  a  slave  to  wild  vagarie"  ? 

What  was  1  doing,  rushing  over  tlio  world  in  this 
(ixtraordinary  manner,  storming  through  Europe  as  if  the 
fate  of  the  universe  depended  upon  ray  movements  ? 
For  a  moment  the  thought  was  horribly  grotesque,  and  1 
smiled  bitterly  to  myself.  CJood  God  !  what  an  absurd- 
ity for  a  sane  human  being  — a  man  with  intelligence 
and  reason,  to  devote  his  time  and  wealth  to  a  searcli  in 
far-olT  places,  even  to  obscure  northern  cities  where  art 
liad  scarcely  penetrated,  enduring  weariness,  susi>icion, 
contempt,  and  repeated  disappointment '.'  And  for 
what  ?  A  picture,  a  shadow,  an  idea !  Driven,  pursued, 
haunted  by  an  imperious  desire,  which  would  leave  me 
neither  bodily  rest  nor  mental  peace  until  I  had  lost  all 
—  wealth,  love,  respect,  and  perhaps  even  reason. 

But  these  gloomy  reflections  do  not  convince  me  nor 
shake  my  convictions.  I  am  young  and  full  of  hope, 
and  I  have  a  great  love  for  all  that  is  true  and  beautiful. 
I  am  an  enthusiast,  but  is  that  a  sin  ?  I  love  the  ideal 
better  than  the  real.  I  have  strange  impressions  —  they 
are  a  part  of  me,  created  with  me,'  my  inheritance,  my 
destiny,  and  I  must  have  the  courage  to  live  up  to  them. 
It  is  cruel,  almost  tragic,  the  way  I  am  tossed  and 
baffled  by  this  unhappy  fate.  However,  the  end  must 
soon  come. 


I  AST. 


TIIK   HTIiANCK   STdllV    or    A     I'lrl'nirK. 


!•»;!) 


Ithougli  he  had 

or  (M)urso,  iio 

bsuriUy  troublo- 

(1  still  and  tried 
mg.  IVrliaps  I 
Had  my  i-xcita- 
ulency,  and  was 

1  world  in  this 
Europe  as  it'  the 
ly  movements  ? 
grotesque,  and  1 
what  an  absurd- 
rith  intelligence 
th  to  a  searcli  in 
cities  where  art 
iness,  suspicion, 
!nt  ?  And  for 
Driven,  pursued, 
would  leave  me 
I  til  I  had  lost  all 
sn  reason, 
convince  me  nor 
nd  full  of  hope, 
■ue  and  beautiful. 

I  love  the  ideal 

pressions  —  they 

r  inheritance,  my 

live  up  to  them. 

am   tossed  and 
jr,  the  end  must 


For  nearly  a  year  1  liiive  been  rarnestly  pursuing  this 
seurc^h,  Inlldwiiii,'  up  the  sli,i;lil,  dew  I  discdvcrt'd  in  Kni,'- 
lund,  and  wliicli  i  iiavi'  not  yet  abaudoncMl.  Tlicro  si'cni 
but  a  Ifw  nuirt'  plucrs  to  visit.  I  must  try  to  moderate 
my  ardor,  and  eonliiiuo  my  search  in  a  less  hostile  man- 
ner, for  1  am  aware  that  my  attitude  is  a  little  peculiar. 
I  fe(d  as  if  tlie  whole  world  has  combined  to^ji'ther  to 
hide  this  i)ictiin!  from  mi',  and  that  I  am  battling  .single- 
handed  against  the  universe  to  wrest  this  secret  from  it. 

The  circle  of  my  investigation  is  narrowing  each  day, 
and  therefore  my  cliances  of  success  are  incutasing.  I 
cannot  think  tliat  it  is  in  any  of  the  countries  I  have 
explored.  It  must  be  still  before  me,  and  I  must  press 
on  even  to  the  end. 

•  .  .  .  , 

MiTNicii.  — I  often  think  of  M.  Michelet's  woflu: 
"The  world  is  not  large  enough  to  hide  such  a  incturc." 
But  1  find  that  it  is  a  very  large  world ;  and  the  j)ro- 
verbial  searching  for  the  needle  in  the  liaysta^^k  is  as 
nothing  compared  to  the  hopelessness  of  my  undertak- 
ing. Heavens  I  how  many  pictures  there  are  in  the 
world.  There  would  be  loo  many  if  no  more  were 
painted  for  a  thousand  years.  Seeing  the  great  surplus 
of  mediocre  jjroductions,  I  am  lesolved  to  refrain  iTi  the 
future  from  adding  to  it ;  I  am  surfeited  witli  all  I  have 
seen;  the  savor  has  gone  out  of  modern  art.  There  is 
certainly,  as  in  many  other  things,  over-production,  and 
I  should  consider  the  individual  a  benefactor  to  unborn 
generations  wlio  would  get  together  all  the  bad  can- 
vases and  make  a  bonfire  of  them,  whose  smoke  would 
reach  even  to  heaven.  It  would  be  a  service  to  art  as 
well  as  to  mankind. 

However,  I  do  jaot  wish  to  take  a  morbid  view  of 


h« 


safe 


I 


'110 


THK   HTOltY    <»F   AN    KNTIM'HIAST. 


liiiiiiiiii  fiidfi'or.  Tli.'y  Imvf  tloiu-  wliufc  tlu'y  ctKild,  imd, 
ill  accoraiinci  with  diviiio  tciuihini,',  I'k'  v  liiivc  iinprov.'il 
tlii'ir  siiKiU  tiilouts.  (i<Ml  «Ii'l  ix't  i»t<'i"i  ''v<''-v  painU-r  to 
\w  a.  Raiili:iol,  or  I  slioultl  not  lie  licvo  c  Misiimiiij,'  my  lilc 
in  this  wi'iiry  H«'iui'h,  whic''.  1  am  I'lee  to  confess,  is 
becoming  ralht-r  ho[)t'lt'ss. 

i  have  just  received   a  letter  from   Paul,  who  is  in 
Venice  witli  the  lirents. 

As  Venice  is  about  the  only  city  in  Italy  that  I  have 
not  seen,  1  shall  liasten  thither  to  )  An  them,  not,  how- 
ever, witli  much  hope  of  success  th*   <■      It  seems  to  mo 
that  I  have   already  exhausted    Ital.y   in   my  study  of 
hV.-'hael.     I  thii  V  it  impossible  that  a  painting?  or  even 
a  ,'rawing  of  the  ;')'.at  master  can  have  escaped   me,  so 
thorou^'h  has  been  my  search  at  different  times  among 
all  of  the  Italian  collections.     But  Venice  still   remains, 
and   1  knov,'  there  is  a  i"ne  gallery  of  original  drawings 
in   the    I'inacoteca.     Venice,   Vienna!  — how   stupid   I 
have  been  ?     What  more  likely  than  that  Dorethea  con- 
founded one  with  the  other,  and  that,  after  all,  it  may 
be  in  Venice.     I  can  scarcely  restrain  my  impatience  to 
get  there  !     Let  me  once  prove   that  drawing  to  be  an 
original,   and  then    there  can  be    no  doubt  about  the 
painting. 

Vknice.  —  I  have  found  tlie  subject  of  the  engraving  in 
Count  von  Ilardenburg's  album,  among  the  original 
drawings  by  llaphael  in  the  gallery  of  the  Pinacoteca. 

Paul  was  with  me  when  I  discovered  it,  and  I  think 
he  was  seriously  alarmed.  For  he  said,  a  few  moments 
afterwards,  when  we  met  the  Brents,  that  he  thought  I 
bad  suddenly  gone  insane,  so  unaccountable  was  my  lj«- 


,;..  .■i<.vj^...u.....r  I    iTHTAIiiiSiHt.Jiiirin'MfVI  n    .liH..^.. 


UAST. 

tlit'y  could,  and, 

li;ivc   iiiiprovt'd 

•vcrv  painter  to 

isiiiniiij,'  my  life 

0   to  confess,  is 


rani,  who  is  in 

taly  that  I  have 
them,  not,  how- 
It  seems  to  nie 
in   my  study  of 
paintinj?  or  even 
3  escaped  me,  so 
•ent  times  among 
ice  still   remains, 
)riRinal  drawings 
—  how   stupid   I 
lat  Dorothea  con- 
after  all,  it  may 
my  impatience  to 
drawing  to  he  an 
doubt  about  the 


if  the  engraving  in 
long  the  original 
the  Pinacoteca. 
id  it,  and  I  think 
d,  a  few  moments 
;hat  he  thought  I 
ntable  was  my  be- 


ai»rri»ai 


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IMAGE  EVALUATION 
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Photographic 

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23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14380 

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Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreprodu.tlons  /  Instltut  Canadian  de  microreproductlons  historiques 


THE   STRANGE   STORY  OF  A  IMCTURE. 


271 


liiivior  over  a.  simple  drawing  in  rod  chalk.  Oolunibus, 
when  he  discovered  tlie  New  World,  I'once  de  Leon  over 
the  Fountain  of  Youth,  Tlie  Knights  of  the  Holy  Grail, 
never  maihi  such  extravagant  demonstrations  of  joy  as  I 
did  over  that  bit  of  paper. 

"  Oh,  I  beg  of  you  to  spare  me ! "  I  cried,  for  I  was 
too  sensitive  to  endure  ridicule.  "  You  will  not  be  sur- 
prised at  my  joy  when  I  toll  you  liow  much  this  hit  of 
jHiper  is  to  me.  My  father  once  owned  the  painting,  by 
llaphael,  of  Avhich  this  sketch  is  tlio  original  study." 

"  Indeed  !  Where  is  it  now?  "  asked  Mr.  Brent,  much 
interested. 

"  I  wish  I  could  tell  you.  It  was  sold  in  Paris,  direct- 
ly after  my  father's  death,  as  a  copy,  ami  for  a  mere 
trifle,  and  I  have  been  searching  for  it  all  my  life." 

"  Tliat  picture  is  in  England,  and  I  have  seen  it,"  ex- 
claimed Mr.  Brent,  "  a  youthfid  head  with  a  black  ber- 
retta  —  the  fac-simile  of  this  drawing.  While  I  look  at 
this,  the  painting  comes  vividly  before  my  mind  because 
of  the  impression  it  made  on  me  at  the  time,  but  every- 
thing connected  witli  it  is  very  vague." 

"  Cannot  you  remember  where  you  saw  it.  Pray,  try 
to  recall  it,"  I  said,  almost  breathless  with  anxiety,  "if 
you  can  only  remember." 

Mr.  Brent  remained  in  deep  thought  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, and  then  said,  reluctantly  :  "  I  can't.  I  am  sorry 
to  say  I  can't  recall  any  of  the  circumstances ;  1  am  only 
confident  that  it  was  in  England.  It  is  long  ago;  before 
I  came  abroad  to  live." 

"  Was  it  before  we  were  married  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Brent, 
anxiously. 

"Was  it  before  I  was  born,  papa?"  questioned  Laura, 
much  interested.     "  Think  of  some  event  of  long  ago," 


.wm 


It 

J 


r 


272 


TIIK   STORY   OK    AN    KNTHUSIAST. 


"  Then,  his  memory  must  go  back  farther,  much  far- 
ther, than  the  time  of  your  birth,"  said  J'aul,  gaUa;.tly. 

Laura  lifted  a  I.ippy,  hiughing  faee,  and,  tapping 
Paul  with  her  parasoi,  whispered :  "  Hush-hush !  Don't 
change  the  current  of  thought  with  irrelevant  remarks. 
I  want  to  help  papa  think." 

"Of  something  that  happened  long  before  your  birth," 

persisted  Paul. 

"  Oh,  vou  are  too  cruel,"  cried  Lain-a.  "Don't  notice 
what  hc'says,  papa;  oidy  try  to  remember  where  it  was." 

"  That's  just  what  I'm  trying  to  do,  my  dear ;  but  I 
can't.  The  more  I  try,  the  more  it  all  slips  away.  The 
only  thing  that  remains  in  my  memory  is  the  picture, 
and  the  impression  that  T  saw  it  in  England.  I  have  not 
thought  of  it  for  years,  but  seeing  the  drawing  recalls  it 
to  my  mind  forcibly." 

"it  could  not  have  been  in  any  collection  of  impor- 
tance, unless  it  has  been  removed,"  I  said,  feeling  anoth- 
er clew  slipping  away,  "for  I  have  examined  every 
picture  gallery  in  England.  Ever  since  my  childhood  I 
have  been  using  every  means  in  my  power  to  discover  it, 
and  to-day  it  seems  farther  away  and  more  hopeless  than 


» 


ever. 

<' Don't  despair,"  replied  Mr.  Preut;  "continue  your 
search  in  England.  It  is  in  England ;  most  likely  in 
some  small  private  collection  that  you  have  missed,  or 
perhaps  it  is  owned  by  some  ignorant  lover  of  old  paint- 
ings, who  does  not  know  what  a  treasure  he  possesses." 

"  Let  me  beg  of  you,"  I  said,  as  I  turned  reluctantly 
from  the  drawing,  "  to  say  nothing  of  our  conversation. 
You  understand  why  it  is  better  for  me  to  conduct  my 
inquiries  with  the  utmost  secrecy.  The  picture  must 
not  be  a  Kaphael  until  it  is  again  iu  my  possession.    It 


''^■"■"' ■■"'^"TrrTi -^-^ T.,-,      ..^1 


AST. 

thor,  mucli  far- 
lul,  galliUitly. 

and,  tapping 
-hush!  Don'b 
ivant  remarks. 

)re  your  birth," 

"Don't  notice 
where  it  was." 
my  dear ;  but  I 
ips  away.  The 
is  the  picture, 
lid.  I  have  not 
iwiiig  recalls  it 

3tion  of  impor- 
[,  feeling  anoth- 
xaniined  every 
my  childhood  I 
■r  to  discover  it, 
■e  hopeless  than 

"  continue  your 

most  likely  in 

have  missed,  or 

rev  of  old  paint- 

I  he  possesses." 

rned  reluctantly 

iir  conversation. 

to  conduct  my 

le  picture  must 

possession.    It 


TIIK  STRANGE   STOUY   OF   A   riCTUUK. 


273 


was  sold  as  tiio  work  of  an  ordinary  artist,  and  as  such 
it  must  be  recovered,  or  else  my  chances  of  buying  it 
will  be  small." 

"  I  understand  you.  You  are  right,  quite  right.  The 
l»ict,ure  w.is  sacrilietid.  It  was  unpardonable.  U'  you 
can  get  possession  of  it  again  by  concealing  its  real 
value,  you  should  ceitaiiily  do  so.  I  will  keep  my  mouth 
closed  and  my  eyes  open,  and  if  ever  1  come  across  it 
again  it  won't  slip  from  my  m(>mory,  I  assure  you." 

"Terhaiisif  you  were  in  England  it  might  occur  to 
you.     Sometimes  associations  "  — 

"Yes.  It  really  might,  and  T  should  not  mind  a  trip 
to  England  if  I  could  help  you.  However,  we  shall  be 
there  next  summer,  and  we  will  see  what  can  be  done." 

"If  one  could  advertise  in  the  Times,"  said  Mrs. 
Hreiit,  laughing. 

"Or  go  to  a  fortune- teller,"  suggested  Laura. 

"Let  me  tell  you  what  will  bo  better  than  either," 
said  Taul.  "  Instead  of  going  to  England  to  search  for  a 
lost  Ilaphael,  go  back  with  us  to  Komc,  where  there  are 
dozens  to  be  seen  without  trouble  or  expense." 

"If  you  don't  return  with  us,  you  may  miss  seeing 
Angelique  married,"  added  Mrs.  IJrent. 

"  Ah  ?  "  I  inquired,  interested  at  once.  "  Is  it  really 
drawing  so  near  the  climax.     When  will  it  be  ?  " 

"My  dear,"  exclaimed,  Mr.  Hrent,  reprovingly,  "you 
should  not  make  such  a  statement  on  your  own  suspi- 
cion. There  really  is  no  time  fixed,  though  there  seems 
to  be  the  best  possible  understanding  between  them ; 
but  you  may  depend  upon  it  that  La  Santa  has  not  yet 
decided  to  give  up  her. pretty  dreams  and  ideals  to  settle 
down  to  domestic  duties." 

"  Why,  my  dear,  one  would  think  that  you  were  the 


f 


274  THE   STORY   OF   AN   ENTHUSIAST. 

yoiin-  lady's  confidant,"  retnrnod  Mrs.  Brent,  laughing. 
"I  am  not  making  my  statement  on  suspicion,  as  you 
sav  but  from  information  received  from  Miulam  Ray- 
mond I  suppose  ske  knows  something  of  her  daughter  s 
atfairs;  and  she  told  me,  the  day  before  wo,  left  Kome, 
that  she  thought  the  marriage  would  take  place  directly 
after  M.  de  Bivcourt's  return  from  France,  where  he  has 
been  for  some  months." 

"I  think  OamiUo  went  away  to  bring  Mile.  Angelique 
to  reason,"  s:,id  Paul,  glancing  at  Laura.  "  He  is  im- 
patient for  her  to  fix  her  sweet  mind  on  some  decision. 
Thcn-'s  no  doubt  but  slie  loves  him  as  much  as  a  sauit 
can  love  a  sinner;  but,  for  some  reason  unexplaiuable,  I 
can't  think  that  she  will  ever  marry  him."  • 

"  Perhaps  she  wants  to  punish  him,  first,  for  all  Ins 
past  sins,  and  when  he  is  sufficiently  penitent  and  pious, 
she  will  take  him,"  remarke.l  Laura,  with  an  arch  smile. 
«« That's  very  likely.     You  women  are  so  cruel,     re- 
turned Paul.  .     ,      , 

"Now,  pray,  don't  distinguish  us  all  with  the  charming 
attributes  of  the  Princess  Natilika,"  retorted  Laura. 

"Who  is  the  Princess  Natilika?  "  I  inquired.  They 
were  iust  stepping  into  their  gondola;  we  were  about  to 
part  until  dinner;  and  the   young  girl  answered  back 

lauffhingly: —  .   .       __  ^.,., 

"What!  have  you  not  heard  of  the  divine  Natilika, 

who  set  all  Rome  wild  about  her  last  winter  ?  " 

"Not  a  word.     Who  is  she,  and  where  did  she  come 

'°^Ah,  that  1  can't  tell.     You  must  find  out  for  yourself 
when  you  return  to  Rome." 

The  gondola  glided  away,  and  I  heard  no  more  of  the 

Princess  Natilika.  , 

•   ■-.     '     :  M    '    '%--     ^^  ^  • 


L 


i^^MallMifcaiiniainriliriiiif 


HAST. 

Brent,  laughing, 
uspicion,  us  you 
»m  Miulam  liay- 
)f  her  dauglitei's 
•0  wo.  left  Komt', 
ko  place  directly 
ce,  where  he  has 

Mile.  Angelique 

ira.     "  He  is  ini- 

m  some  decision. 

much  as  a  saint 

unexplainable,  I 

n." 

,  first,  for  all  his 
?nitent  and  pious, 
ith  an  arch  smile, 
are  so  cruel,"  re- 

ivith  the  charming 
itorted  Laura. 
:  inquired.     They 
we  were  about  to 
irl  answered  back 

e  divine  Natilika, 

winter  ?  " 

liere  did  she  come 

nd  out  for  yourself 

ird  no  more  of  the 


THE   STRANGE  8T0UY   OF   A   PICTURE.  276 


V. 

I  HAD  been  absent  from  England  over  a  year,  and  it 
was  nearly  (Jliristiiuis  when  I  roturnod.  I  reached  the 
station  at  Iladdingham  on  a  dull  December  afternoon. 
There  was  no  one  to  meet  me,  as  I  had  not  informed 
them  of  the  exact  time  of  my  intended  arrival.  Twi- 
light was  already  drawing  down  her  gray  curtain  as  I 
started  on  my  walk  across  the  park  to  the  Hall.  The 
air  was  clear  and  frosty,  and  the  frozen  ground  echoed 
and  re-echoed  my  rapid  steps  through  the  mournful 
silence  of  the  Avoods.  Now  and  then,  a  frightened  hare 
scurried  across  my  path  ;  or  a  pheasant  whirred  upward 
from  some  warm  nook  among  the  low  branches.  These 
were  the  only  signs  of  life  around  me,  and  a  dreary, 
desolate  feeling,  amounting  almost  to  solemnity,  filled 
my  soul  as  I  contemplated  the  gathering  darkness, 
which  seemed  an  emblem  of  the  mystery  surrounding 
human  destiny. 

For  some  inexplicable  reason,  the  nearer  I  approached 
the  Hall,  the  more  isolated  and  friendless  I  felt ;  and  it 
Avas  not  until  the  twinkling  lights  gleaming  from  the 
Avindows  met  my  sight  that  the  clouds  dispersed 
and  the  gloomy  premonitions  vanished,  dispelled  by 
brighter,  happier  anticipations  of  my  meeting  with 
Dorethea. 

It  must  have  been  the  light  of  my  love's  near  pres- 
ence that  dispersed  the  shadows  so  suddenly,  for,  as  I 
turned  into  the  main  avenue,  I  saw,  a  few  feet  in  ad- 
vance of  me,  a  slight  figure,  wrapped  from  head  to  feet 
in  furs,  walking  rapidly  toward  the  Hall. 

"  Dorethea,  my  Dorethea ! "  I  called,  in  a  voice  broken 


r 


■^iw^iLi|H.if^> 


270 


THE   8TOUY  OP  AN  ENTHUSIAST. 


with  emotion.  She  did  not  hear  me,  and,  not  wial.inj,'  to 
alarm  her  in  the  gathering  darkness,  I  made  a  (U'sperate 
eHort  to  control  myself,  and  said  ealnily  and  distinctly  ; 
'<  JJorethea,  why  do  yon  run  away  from  me  '!  " 

Hearing  her  name  and  recognizing  my  voice,  she 
turned,  crying:  "Felix,  oh,  Felix!  What  a  surprise! 
What  a  pleasure  !  Why  are  you  here  ?  When  did  you 
come  V  "  all  of  which  questions  I  answered  with  a  ram 
of  hai)i)y  kisses.  ^^ 

"  Hut  how  is  it  my  darling  is  out  so  late,  and  alone  '. 
I  asked,  caressing  the  little  cold  face  nestled  against  n>y 
shoulder.  ^ 

"  1  have  been  to  the  lodge,  reading  to  the  keeper  s 
wife,  who  is  ill;  and  I  forgot  how  short  the  days 
are  now;  but  if  I  had  not  stayed  so  late,  I  should  not 
have  seen  you  so  soon,  for  1  should  have  been  dressing 

for  dinner." 

"Thank  Heaven  for  anything  that  has  given  me  this 
pleasure  a  moment  sooner,"  1  exclaimed,  devoutly,  as  I 
drew  her  little  hand,  iu  its  thick,  warm  glove,  into  my 

close  clasp. 

"  Come  around  to  the  west  porch,"  she  said,  taking 
my  arm,  and  drawing  me  in  that  direction.  "I  think 
papa  is  in  his  study,  just  where  you  left  him.  Oh,  no,  I. 
don't  mean  to  say  that  he  has  been  there  ever  since," 
with  a  light  laugh,  "  but  I  think  you  had  better  see  him 
at  once,  while  I  dress  for  dinner.  We  have  friends 
staying  with  us.  I  will  send  a  servant  to  the  station  for 
your  boxes,  and,  while  you  are  waiting  for  them,  you  can 
have  a  chat  with  papa;  and  now,  dear,"  she  said  coax- 
ingly,  her  hand  on  the  latch,"  before  you  go  in,  promise 
not  to  get  angry  with  papa,  no  matter  what  provocation 
.  you  may  have.    Fromise,  dear,  for  my  sake." 


i^'iii  II'  rriirnMiTiri  • 


ibAiMiiwaMiiVM*" 


rSIAST. 

id,  not  wialiinj;  to 
made  a  dt'si»t'rate 
y  and  diHtiuctly  : 

i;  my  voice,  shi- 
iVhat  a  sui'iirist'  I 
'  When  did  you 
vered  with  a  rain 

late,  and  ah)ne  ?  " 
estled  against  my 

T  to  the  keeper's 
r  short  the  days 
late,  I  should  not 
ave  been  dressing 

has  given  me  this 
led,  devoutly,  as  I 
i-m  glove,  into  my 

"  she  said,  taking 
■ection.  "I  think 
;ft  him.  Oh,  no,  1. 
there  ever  since," 
had  better  see  him 
We  have  friends 
t  to  the  station  for 
;  for  them,  you  can 
ar,"  she  said  coax- 
you  go  in,  promise 
L-  what  provocation 
f  sake." 


.iwiiiiifrtlfiiftrii)tiaaii.ii» 


TIIK  STIiANCiK  STOUY   OF   A    I'ICTITUB. 


277 


1  pri'ssi'd  my  lips  to  her  little  ear,  rosy  with  the  cold, 
and  promised. 

As  if  by  magic,  all  my  dark  forebodings  and  fears  dis- 
appeared, and  I  was  in  my  best,  my  hai)piest  mood. 
Dorothea's  bright,  loving  welcome  had  exorcised  the 
brooding  demon  ;  and,  in  that  state  of  mind,  il  was  im- 
possible for  me  to  take  exception  at  Lord  Hardnioor'8 
half-playful,  half-satirical  inquiries. 

"  Had  1  succeeded  in  my  search  ?  Had  I  brought  back 
the  Raphael." 

I  replied  that  I  had  not  found  the  painting,  but  that  I 
had  found  the  subject  of  Count  von  Hardenburg's  en- 
graving, among  the  original  studies  of  Raphael  in  the 
rinacoteca  in  Venice.  "  Which,"  I  added,  "  proves  be- 
yond a  doubt  the  authenticity  of  my  father's  picture." 

Lord  Hardmoor  laughed  disagreeably,  and  said,  in  a 
tone  that  would  have  been  very  provoking  at  any  other 
time  :  "  If  you  had  not  been  in  such  a  hurry  to  start  out 
on  your  search.  Count  von  Hardenburg  could  have  saved 
you  all  the  trouble  you  have  taken.  He  told  me  at  once 
where  the  original  of  the  engraving  could  be  found,  and 
also  said  that  it  was  Raphael's  first  study  for  the  head 
in  the  Louvre,  or  the  Violin-Player  in  the  Sciarra  Palace 
in  Rome." 

Bor  a  moment  the  blood  rushed  angrily  to  my  face.  I 
was  disgusted  at  such  childish  evasion  of  the  truth.,  but, 
thinking  of  my  promise  to  Dorethea,  I  replied,  ^  "iifily, 
that  we  had  agreed  —  or,  rather,  that  1  had  promio-e-i  — 
not  to  renew  the  subject  of  the  picture,  and  I  thereiore 
thought  it  best  to  leave  all  discussion  until  some  future 
occasion,  when  we  might  have  a  better  opportunity  of 
settling  the  vexed  question. 

Lord  Hardmoor  readily  assented,  and  began  to  speak 


278 


TIIK   STOUY    OK    AN    KNTllllSIASl'. 


of  the  improvcineiits  tliiit  hud  hoeii  nuuli'  ut  Miir'vhin.l 
Vhwx',  and  also  of  soiuo  chaiiKos  that  ho  I'oiitomphitod 
making  on  his  own  estate.  He  was  so  briglit  and  genial, 
so  interested  in  everything,  so  youthful  and  hopeful,  so 
different  in  every  respect,  fronv  the  melancholy,  irritable 
man  I  had  left  a  little  more  than  a  year  ago,  that  I  could 
only  look  at  him  and  wonder  at  the  healing  power  of 

time. 

After  a  i)leasant  half-hour,  he  said  it  was  time  to  dresa 
for  dinner,  and  remarked  that  there  were  ladies  staying 
in  the  house  and  that  Count  von  llardeid)urg  had  come 
down  the  previous  day. 

On  my  way  to  my  room,  I  was  stru(;k  l)y  the  signs  of 
gayety  and  fashionable  life,  «piite  unusual  at  Hardmoor 
Hall.  A  smart  French  maid,  with  red  ribbons  on  her 
cap,  was  chatting  on  the  stairs  with  a  foreign-looking 
valet;  an  opening  and  shutting  of  doors,  a  constant 
tinkling  of  bells,  much  light  laughter,  and  many  merry 
voices,  all  betokened  a  number  of  visitors  and  an  uncom- 
mon activity  among  the  servants. 

I  found  a  bright  fire  blazing  in  my  room,  my  boxes 
unstrapped,  and  all  the  necessities  of  a  hasty  toilet  set 
out  and  quite  ready. 

I  was  impatient  to  see  Dorethea  alone  for  a  few 
moments  before  dinner,  therefore,  I  was  not  long  in  dress- 
ing. However,  I  was  too  late,  for  others  were  in  the 
drawing-room  before  me.  As  I  approached  the  door,  I 
heard  a  very  iine  tenor  voice  singing  an  arrangement 
from  Chopin  ;  I  lingered  a  moment,  and  then  entered. 

The  room  was  brilliantly  lighted,  and  had  quite  a  fes- 
tive appearance;  Dorethea  sat  at  the  piano;  a  dainty 
gown  of  lavender  and  white  set  off  to  advantage  the 
gold  of  her  haiv  and  the  tender  whiteness  of  her  skin. 


■- 1  f-ii  lY''^'"^*^''-^"''^"^ 


tmr  *-"i.7iii;iii  itSMu  rniiH 


HAST. 


THK   RTIIANOK   STOPV    oK    A    PrOTiritK. 


270 


le  ut  Miir'vl;ui(l 
e  ci)iik'iui)l;iti'(l 
I'iglit  •.iiul  geiiiiil, 
and  hopeful,  so 
uchnly,  irritable 
:igo,  that  I  could 
billing  power  of 

k-as  time  to  dress 
a  ladies  staying 
iiburg  had  come 

by  the  signs  of 
lal  at  Hardnioor 
ribbons  on  her 
I  t'oreigu-looking 
oors,  a  constant 
lud  many  merry 
rs  and  an  uncom- 

room,  my  boxes 
hasty  toilet  set 

ilone  for  a  few 
not  long  in  dress- 
lers  were  in  the 
Lchcd  the  door,  I 
J  an  arrangement 
I  then  entered, 
I  had  quite  a  fes- 
piano;  a  dainty 
to  advantage  the 
less  of  her  skin. 


Kcside  hiT,  with  a  sln'ct  of  music  in  his  liaiul,  stood  a 
very  liaiulsonic,  courtly-looking  iiiiui.  I  took  iu  at  a 
glance  tlic  group  at  the  piano,  and  Micu  I  saw  Walter 
and  a  picasaut-l'accd  girl  coming  toward  nic. 

Dorothea  was  at  my  side  iu  a  moment,  l)lushing 
sweetly,  as  she  presented  me  to  my  new  cousin  Kditli, 
Walter's  wile.  Tlu'u  turning  to  the  gontleman,  who 
.still  lingered  near  the  piano,  a.s  if  he  did  not  Avish  to 
intrude  on  a  family  meeting,  she  said,  iu  a  wiusonu', 
friendly  tone,  "Count  von  llardenlnu-g,  let  me  introduce 
you  to  j\Ir.  \rarkland.  Felix,  ycm  and  the  Count  are  sure 
to  be  fast  friends,  you  have  so  many  tastes  in  common." 

The  usual  polite  and  graciou.-;  remarks  passed  between 
us,  while  I  furtively  studied  his  face.  He  was  undeni- 
ably handsome,  and  fearfully  young  to  be  a  friend  and 
mentor  to  Dorethea.  I  had  thought  of  him  as  an  old 
stuffy  German  pedant;  instead,  he  was  still  on  the 
youthful  side  of  forty,  and  charming  in  looks  and  man- 
ners. 

While  wo  were  all  talking  pleasantly.  Lord  Hardmoor 
entered  briskly.  He  was  better  dressed  and  younger- 
looking  than  I  remembered  to  have  seen  him  for  years. 

He  glanced  around  uneasily,  and,  after  a  few  remarks, 
took  his  usual  place  on  the  rug  before  the  fire,  where  ho 
furtively  looked  at  his  watch  from  time  to  time. 

In  a  few  moments  there  was  afrou  frou  at  the  door, 
and  a  very  musical  voice,  followed  by  a  ripple  of  laugh- 
ter, as  three  ladies  entered ;  an  overdressed  young-old 
lady,  and  a  very  plain  oldish-looking  young  lady,  fol- 
lowed by  quite  a  remarkably  handsome  woman,  of  the 
dark,  dashing  type,  who  was  talking  volubly,  while  with 
every  breath  she  laughed  with  little  tinkling  trills,  that 
were  very  cheery  and  musical. 


OHO  TIIK  sTOItV   OK    AS    KNTIIIfHIAHf. 

Tlu.y  wcr.  I.uiy  (•l;tv..rl.uus..,  Miss  Cl.m-vl.ons..,  a.ul 

Lulon  society  nnth..  last  six  yeavs.     ^V'-«--:^- 
o„o   fl."om.>.l   to   know   exactly.      However,   sho    was   a 
:;::,.  or  .emus  ..l   eviaent  wealth.  ;;    -^   - 

nniet  but  elegant  siyle,  in  l-on.lon  ;.  arteete.l  1  te.a.y  am 
tistic  society;    «avo  chanuin^'  .liuuers  and  nms.ca     ; 
:     «^.^^iUa;;Vintea  better  than  n,ost  fashuu.ab  e 
!^aUn,r  ,  and  wrote  very  readable  papers  on  a^sthetu, 
d -ects/which  were  published  in  the  leadu.«  .u^^u^ 
,5„t  her  .n-eat  charmlay  in  her  Bupovb  dramatic  tale.  . 
V  reel  ations,  once  heard,  were  sometlun.  to  remembe 
.lways,and  her  comedy  an.l  tragedy  -^uig  wer     d  ko 
remarkable.     She  was  very  sweet-tempored,  her  fiUMxla 
Xand  the  most  obliging  genius  that  ever   existed. 
S  e  was  always  ready  to  use  her  numerous  acemuj^s^ - 
meats  for  charitable  purposes,  or  for  any  "-  *'''^    ;     ^ 
l,y  people  who  are  ever  itching  to  unprove  the  cond  t 
of  those  who  arc  best  off  in   the  station   assigned 
by  an  all-wise  Creator.     She  was  the  ^^'f '^'f '  ^^^  ,"  ;! 
entertaining,  the  most  popular  woman  m  London,  an.l  was 
etom  d  tartily  everywhere.     'Vo  me  she   appeared 
somewhat  loud  and  showy,  but  undeniably  charming. 

T lire  was  one  other  guest,  Lord  Olaverhouse,  who 
hobbled  in  at  the  last  moment,  evidently  suffering  greatly 

'ToiSnardmoor,  as  he  gave  his  arm  to  Lady  C|aver- 
house  looked  enviously  at  old  Olaverhouse,  toddling 
afr  ;v!th  Mrs.  Coleman  Leeds  who  laug^  as  ^ly  as 
though  her  escort  had  been  Adonis  himself ;  Count  von 
Hardenburg  and  Walter's  wife  followed;  then  Wa  ter 
and  Miss  Olaverhouse,  and  lastly  I -oh,  happy  I!- 
brought  up  the  rear  with  Dorethea,  whom  I  could  scarcely 


il  I'ii  'rl  iitifti'«t 


_u>iri'iri"'    "  '    •  "'•"■'-■•. i 


i^mMp 


:iiivi'ili(iiisi',  iuitl 
lail  lifiiid  of  in 
,Vlu)  slu)  wa8,  lu) 
ivcr,   h1»o    wiiH  ii 
Slu'   lived   in 
(•led  litcniry  and 
IS  anil  mnsicals; 
most  t'asliionai)lo 
povs  on  ii'Htlu'tic. 
!adinj,'  inatjaziiu'S. 

dramatic  taliMit. 
Iiing  to  romcmlu'r 
icting  wi'i'o  aliko 
lored,  her  fripmls 
liiit  evor   oxisti'd. 
orons  accomiilisli- 
ly  new  fad  started 
•ove  the  condition 
111   assijjned  them 
iriiJthtest,  the  most 
n  London,  and  was 
lue   she   ajipeaved 
ably  charming. 

Olaverhouse,  who 
ly  suffering  greatly 

n  to  Lady  Claver- 
verhouse,  toddling 
laughed  as  gayly  as 
imself;  Count  von 
)wed;  then  Walter 
—  oh,  happy  I !  — 
lom  I  could  scarcely 


TIIK  HTKANOK   HTOllV   (»K   A    I'KiTirUK. 


2HI 


refrain  from  kissing  on  the  sly,  she  looked  such  a  lovely 
child,  in  her  dainty  gown. 

The  dinner  went  on  pleasantly.  There  was  a  great 
deal  of  lively  chatter,  and  a  continual  ripple  of  laughter 
from  Mrs.  (!oleiaan  Lceils,  wiio  would  make  the  dinner 
gay  at  a  tahlt>  of  TrappistH,  proviiling  she  were  allowed 
to  talk  herself. 

Lord  Ilanlmoor  was  at  his  best.  I  had  never  seen 
him  so  brilliant  and  entertaining.  If  Lady  Claverhouse 
had  been  less  interested  in  her  dinner,  she  certainly 
would  have  notiitcd  the  almost  exclusive  attention  her 
host  gave  to  the  guest  on  his  left. 

From  time  to  time  Dorethea's  soft  ey(!8  turned  toward 
the  head  of  the  table  a  little  anxiimsly,  then  she  would 
raise  them  to  me,  with  troubled  inquiry  in  their  blue 
depths. 

"Tapa  seems  very  happy,  does  ho  not?"  in  a  low 
voice,  with  a  soft  sigh.  "JSIrs.  Coleman  Leeds  is  so 
amusing  she  quite  makes  him  forget  Lady  Claverhouse." 
Then  apologetically,  '-Dear  papa!  I'm  glad  to  see  him  so 
cheerful,  lie  has  been  sad  so  long,  but  I  hope  he  won't 
offend  Lady  Claverhouse.  He  liaa  scarcely  Bi)oken  to 
lier  all  through  dinner." 

"Are  Lady  Claverlnmse  and  Mrs.  Coleman  Leeds  inti- 
mate friends  V  "  I  asked,  stooping  to  Iht  pretty  ear. 

"Oh,  yes;  they  go  everywhere  together,  and  tliey 
average  very  well.'' 

"  May  I  ask  in  what  way  ?  " 

"Lady  Claverhouse  makes  up  in  birth  what  IMrs. 
Coleman  Leeds  lacks ;  and  Mrs.  Coleman  Leeds  adds  iu 
attractiveness  and  beauty  what  is  wanting  in  her  friend. 
Do  you  understand  what  I  mean,  or  am  I  very  am- 
biguousV" 


282 


THE   8T011Y   OP  AN  ENTHUSIAST. 


"  You  are  a  very  clever  little  woman  of  the  world,  and 
my  innocence  can  scarcely  grasp  the  subtlety  of  your 

meaning."  ■     ■,  ■ ,         c 

"Oh,  I  assure  you  it  is  not  an  original  idea  ot  mnie. 
It  is  what  every  one  says,  only  1  suppose  I  have 
expressed  it  badly.  But  what  am  I  saying  ?  It  is  very 
rude  to  talk  so  long  in  an  undertone,  and  especially 

about  one's  guests." 

"  Lady  Claverhouse  is  very  good-natured  to  give  your 
father  such  an  opportunity  to  make  himself  agreeable ; 
and  he  is  improving  it  witli  such  good  effect  that,  it  1 
am  not  mistaken,  something  serious  will  result. 

"Why  Felix!  What  do  you  mean?"  and  Dorethea 
shot  a  grieved,  puzzled  look  from  under  her  white  lids. 

"  She  is  a  widow,  is  she  not  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so.    I  have  never  heard  of  a  Mr.  Coleman 

Leeds."  ,     ,  , 

Just  at  that  moment  Count  von  Hardenbnrg  made  a 
remark  about  the  skating  to  Walter's  wife,  who  sat  on 
my  left;  and  she  appealed  to  Dorethea  to  know  some- 
thing of  the  condition  of  the  ice  on  the  river. 

Wliile  they  were  discussing  the  possibilities  of  a  trial 
the  next  day,  I  furtively  studied  the  handsome  face  of 
the  German.  He  had  a  singularly  frank  expression,  and 
his  clear  blue  eyes  were  full  of  sunny,  youthful  light; 
but  his  mouth,  under  his  tawny  moustache,  looked  a 
little  cvnical  and  hard.  However,  when  he  smiled  his 
eyes  aiid  moutli  were  more  in  harmony,  and  his  whole 
face  grew  soft  and  gentle  when  he  spoke  to  Dorethea. 

Every  one  at  the  table  seemed  to  place  a  high  esti- 
mate on  his  judgment,  and  he  was  frequently  appealed  to 
to  settle  a  disputed  point  or  confirm  a  wavering  opinion. 
'I'here  was  a  great  deal  of   complimentary  small  talk ; 


-  _-^*»it»«fi*»M>*'^ 


UA8T. 

f  the  world,  and 
ubtlety  ot'  your 

\\  idea  of  nuue. 
suppose  I  liave 
ng?  It  is  very 
,  and  especially 

red  to  give  your 
luself  agreeable ; 
.  effect  that,  it'  I 
1  result." 
"  and  Dorethea 
her  white  lids. 

if  a  Mr.  Coleman 

irdenbnrg  made  a 
wife,  who  sat  on 
;a  to  know  some- 
river. 

abilities  of  a  trial 
liandsome  face  of 
ik  expression,  and 
r,  youthful  light ; 
.istache,  looked  a 
len  he  smiled  his 
ny,  and  his  whole 
ke  to  Dorethea. 
place  a  high  esti- 
uently  appealed  to 
wavering  opinion, 
nitary  small  talk ; 


<fffl»"r}i..' 


THK   STKANGE   STOIIY   OV   A   I'lCTUKK. 


283 


flashes  of  wit  and  mirthful  allusions,  mingled  with  con- 
stant tinkling  laughter  between  the  Ouunt  and  Mrs. 
Coleman   Leeds,  who  mutually   admired  and  flattered 

each  other. 

One  other  thing  I  noticed  which  seemed  peculiar  at 
the  time.  It  was  the  eifort  that  Count  von  Hardenburg 
made  to  bring  out  Lord  Hardmoor's  best  points ;  while 
he  was  quietly  and  with  perfect  good-breeding  trying 
to  promote  a  close  intimacy  between  his  host  and  the 
brilliant  widow. 

When  the  ladies  retired  to  the  drawing-room,  I  asked 
to  be  allowed  to  join  them  ;  for  I  never  liked  the  heavy 
English  fashion  of  sitting  so  long  over  wine  and  wal- 
nuts. Dorethea  took  her  place  at  the  tea-table,  and  I 
joined  her,  while  the  ladies  gathered  around  Mrs.  Cole- 
man  Leeds  at  the  piano.  Lord  Hardmoor  soon  entered, 
followed  by  the  other  gentlemen,  who  at  once  were 
drawn  to  the  centre  of  attraction,  where  Mrs.  Coleman 
Leeds  and  Count  von  Hardenburg  engaged  in  a  spirited 
discussion  while  they  sipped  their  tea. 

I  drew  a  chair  to  Doretbea's  table,  and  watched  her 
pretty  hands  as  she  filled  the  cups  of  old  Dresden,  and 
wondered  to  myself  why  Count  von  Hardenburg  was  so 
anxious  to  establish  a  mutual  interest  betwceu  Lord 
Hardmoor  and  Mrs.  Coleman  Leeds. 

"Dorethea,"  I  asked  at  length,  in  a  low  voice,  "do 
you  like  Mrs.  Coleman  Leeds  ?  " 

"  Why,  Felix !  what  a  question  t  Of  course  1  like  her. 
She  is  very  lovely  and  sweet,  and  so  clever." 

"Yes,  I  grant  she  is  all  that,  but  at  times,  when  you 
think  of  her,  do  you  never  feel  a  little  distrustful  ?  " 

"  Why  should  I  ?  "  evasively.  "  She  is  only  a  guest. 
We  met  her  a  great  deal  in  London  two  years  ago,  and 


'  filiiiWintirirfriiWii 


284 


THE  8TOUY   OF   AN   KNTHU81A8T. 


floar  mama  was  much  pleased  with  her.  She  spent 
Christmas  of  that  year  here  ;  and  oh,  Felix,"  with  a 
very  sad  sigh,  "we  were  so  happy  then,  buh  now  —  " 
and  she  bent  her  head  over  the  cups  to  hide  the  quick 
tears  that  started  to  her  eyes.  "I  did  not  quite  want 
people  this  Cliristinas,  but  papa  could  not  endiire  the 
country  without  Count  von  Hardenburg ;  and  you  know 
it  would  have  been  very  dull  for  him  with  only  us  two. 
The  Claverhouses  and  Mrs.  Coleman  Leeds  are  always 
invited  with  him.  Tliey  are  great  friends,  and  had 
numbers  of  invitations,  but  of  course  they  gave  us  the 
preference  because  of  papa's  intimacy  with  the  Count."^^ 

"  What  is  the  basis  of  tliis  extravagant  friendship  ?  " 
I  asked,  a  little  satirically.  ^ 

"  Ah,  you  must  ask  papa  to  explain  that.  I  can  t 
judge  for  him.  I  only  know  the  Count  is  delightful, 
always  entertaining  and  agreeable,  and  so  unselfish  I 
think  he  forgets  himself  entirely  in  his  efforts  to  make 

others  happy."  •  ,  i.    * 

«  Yet  he  seems  to  get  a  good  deal  of  pleasure  out  ot 

life." 

'» Yes,  he  is  always  happy.  It  is  his  nature.  I  shall 
always  be  grateful  to  him  for  helping  papa  to  regain  his 
interest  in  life  once  more.  It  was  so  long  before  we 
could  get  him  to  leave  the  seclusion  of  his  study ;  and 
it  was  the  Count  who  first  prevailed  on  him  to  go  up  to 
town  last  spring.  Of  course,  we  did  not  go  out,  but  papa 
was  deeply  interested  in  art,  and  quite  devoted  his  time 
to  the  new  London  gallery  ;  which,  under  his  direction, 
was  renovated  and  rearranged  with  excellent  effect,  and 
the  Count's  advice  and  assistance  were  invaluable.  The 
members  of  the  lloyal  Academy  opposed  a  great  many 
of  the  improvements,  but  the  Count  brought  most  of 


3IAST. 


THE   STRANGE   STOUY    OF   A    IMCTUUK. 


285 


lor.  She  spent 
Felix,"  with  a 
sn,  buh  now  —  " 
0  hide  the  quick 
.  not  quite  wimt 
not  end\ire  the 
;  and  you  know 
ith  only  us  two. 
jeeds  are  always 
riends,  and  had 
they  gave  us  the 
nth  the  Count." 
,nt  friendship?" 

u  that.  I  can't 
ut  is  delightful, 
id  so  unselfish  I 
is  efforts  to  make 

f  pleasure  out  of 

s  nature,  I  shall 
papa  to  regain  his 

0  long  before  we 
)f  his  study;  and 

1  him  to  go  up  to 
)t  go  out,  but  papa 
!  devoted  his  time 
iider  his  direction, 
cellent  effect,  and 
I  invaluable.  The 
)sed  a  great  many 
,  lironght  most  of 


them  around  to  think  with  papa  and  him;  especially 
about  restoring  some  of  the  old  paintings,  and  changing 
the  catalogues.  It  was  very  funny  that  ever  since  the 
gallery  has  been  in  existence  some  of  the  finest  pictures 
have  been  ascribed  to  inferior  artists,  and  some  of  the 
])oorest  were  catalogued  as  old  masters.  I'apa  and  the 
Count  made  some  very  important  discoveries,  which 
delighted  some  of  the  Academicians,  who  had  thought 
for  a  long  time  in  the  same  direction.  I  don't  know  all 
the  details,  —  papa  can  tell  you  them,  —  but  they  made 
a  great  revolution,  and  provoked  no  end  of  discussion 
among  artists  and  connoisseurs." 

I  was  about  to  make  some  reply  not  very  flattering  to 
Lord  Hardmoor,  when  Mrs.  Coleman  Leeds  walked  to 
the  centre  of  the  room.  Taking  a  graceful  position  near 
a  table,  she  began  to  recite  a  poem  of  Browning's,  with 
exquisite  effect.  Every  one  was  much  impressed,  while 
Lord  Hardmoor's  face  wore  an  expression  of  the  most 
fatuous  devotion,  which  must  have  been  agreeable  to 
Count  von  Hardenburg,  who  smiled  while  he  watched 
him. 

VL 

The  next  morning,  directly  after  breakfast,  the  whole 
party,  with  the  exception  of  Lord  and  Lady  Claverhouse, 
started  for  the  river  to  test  the  ice.  The  air  Avas  clear 
and  crisp,  and  the  sun  shone  brilliantly  among  the 
naked  branches,  which  were  tipped  with  diamonds  and 
outlined  in  crystal  against  the  purple  sky. 

We  were  all  in  excellent  spirits.  Even  Lord  Hard- 
moor swung  along  over  the  smooth,  hard  road  with  a 
youthful  stride,  laughing  gayly  with  Mrs.  Coleman  Leeds, 


286 


THK   8TOUY   OV   AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


who  looked  chavniing  in  a  green  velvet  jacket  and  cay  bor- 
dered with  rich  fur.  . 

Whether  it  was  my  happy  mood  or  the  beautityu.g 
effect  of  the  morning,  I  thought  that  plain  Miss  Claver- 
house  looked  quite  pretty  in  her  jaunty  skating  costume, 
as  she  stepped  along  briskly  between  Count  vcm  Harden- 
burg  and  Walter,  while  the  little  bride  walked  with  us 
She  and  Dorethea  were  excellent  friends,  and  they  kept 
up  a  running  fire  of  pretty,  harmless  witticisms  at  tlie 
expense  of  the  others. 

It  was  all  delightful.  The  ice  was  in  excellent  condi- 
tion, and,  under  the  influence  of  the  bright  sky  and 
merry  company,  I  ielt  like  alight-hearted,  careless  boy. 
With  Dorethea's  little  hand  clasped  in  mine,  as  we 
glided  down  the  shining  track,  I  thought  of  our  future 
together,  and  wondered  if  our  life  would  be  as  harmo- 
nious and  buoyant,  as  bright  and  joyous,  as  then. 

It  has  always  been  a  peculiarity  of  my  nature  that  in 
the  very  midst  of  mirth  and  gay  laughter  some  sad  scene, 
some  mournful  thought  intrudes  itself  with  such  power 
that  I  can  scarce  refrain  from  weeping.  At  tliat  moment 
I  thought  of  the  quiet  sleepers  on  the  river's  bank,  not,  a 
mile  away  — of  the  tragic  sorrow  of  one  life  and  the 
quiet  happiness  of  the  other;  and  both  had  come  to 
the  same  end,  to  sleep  and  be  forgotten. 

Dorethea's  sweet  voice  and  Mrs.  Coleman  Leeds  tink- 
ling laughter  sounded  like  discordant  notes  in  the  midst 
of  a  solemn  harmony.  A  cloud  passed  over  the  sun ;  a 
sound  of  rising  wind  swept  down  the  valley.  I  pressed 
the  little  clinging  hand  close,  close  to  my  heart  as  ^^•e 
glided  under  the  shadow  of  a  giant  tree  near  the  water  s 
edge,  where  Lord  Hardmoor  was  pacing  restlessly  back 
and  forth,  watching  the  graceful  evolutions  of  Count  von 


5IAST. 

ket  and  ca»)  bor- 

tho  beautifying 
liii  Miss  Claver- 
skatiiig  costume, 
unt  von  HardtMi- 
walkiul  with  us. 
i,  and  they  kept 
k'itticisms  at  the 

excellent  condi- 

bright  sky  and 
ted,  careless  boy. 
in  mine,  as  we 
;ht  o£  our  future 
idd  be  as  harmo- 
3,  as  then, 
ly  nature  that  in 
!r  some  sad  scene, 
:  with  such  power 

At  that  moment 
fiver's  bank,  not  a 
one  life  and  the 
)oth  had  come  to 
in. 

eman  Leeds'  tink- 
lotes  in  the  midst 

over  the  siin;  a. 
valley.  I  pressed 
3  my  heart  as  we 
e  near  the  water's 
iig  restlessly  back 
tious  of  Count  von 


TIIK   STUANGE   STORY   OF   A   PICTUKE. 


287 


Hardenburg  and  Mrs.  Coleman  Leeds,  who  were  in  ad- 
vance of  us. 

"Don't  speak,"  said  Dorethea,  softly,  and,  pulling  me 
with  her,  she  glided  silently  and  swiftly  close  behind 
them.  The  Count  was  saying  something  in  a  low,  im- 
pressive tone,  and  the  lady  replied  contemptously  and 

angrily. 
"  Why  are  you  so  anxious  ?     If  I  marry  Hardmoor,  1 

shall  drop  you." 

"Do  as  you  please  about  that,  only   improve  your 

present  chance." 

She  was  about  to  reply,  when  the  slight  noise  of  our 
skates  on  the  ice  caused  them  to  turn  simultaneously 
and  reveal  two  troubled,  excited  faces. 

Dorethea  flashed  a  glance  at  me,  and  then  said,  with 
wonderful  tact,  "  We  were  trying  to  pass  you,  but  you 
both  skate  so  swiftly  that  we  could  not  gain  on  you." 

"I  was  just  scolding  the  Count  for  getting  me  so  out 
of  breath,"  returned  Mrs.  Coleman  Leeds,  with  a^forced 
laugh;  "you  see  I'm  not  as  young  as  I  once  was." 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  We  do  not  see  it,"  said  the 
Count,  recovering  himself  instantly. 

"I  think  we  have  come  far  enough,"  remarked  Dore- 
thea.    "  I'm  afraid  papa  will  take  cold  waiting." 

"He  seems  impatient,  judging  from  the  way  he  is 
stamping  back  and  forth ;  perhaps  we  had  better  start 
homeward,"  said  the  Count,  looking  inquiringly  at  Mrs. 
Coleman  Leeds. 

"  I  agree  with  you.  I  see  the  others  have  gone  back, 
and  I  think  it's  turning  cold.  After  all,  I  don't  think  I 
like  skating  as  well  as  I  did  at  sixteen." 

When  we  were  out  of  hearing,  on  our  way  back,  Dore- 
thea  asked,  hesitatingly,    "Did  you  notice  what  the 


288 


THE   8TOIIY   OV   AN    KNTIIL'SIAST. 


Count  and  Airs.  Coleman  Leeds  were  saying  just  as  we 
came  up  behind  them  ?  " 

"  I  heard  some  remarks  which  I  don't  think  were  in- 
tended for  us,  therefore  we  had  better  not  remember 
them,"  I  replied,  evasively. 

"  Their  voices  were  so  very  singular,  or  rather  Mrs. 
(Jolemaii  Leeds'  was.  It  sounded  so  harsh,  and  almost 
as  if  she  were  angry." 

"  Quite  as  if  she  were  angry,"  I  assented. 
"  Perhaps  it  was  the  cold,  and  her  being  out  of  breath. 
Did  you  hear  distinctly  what  she  said,  Felix  ?  Don't 
think  I'm  curious ;  but  I  thought  I  heard  her  mention 
papa's  name,  and  it  struck  me  like  a  blow,  although  I 
didn't  quite  understand  what  she  said." 

"Then  don't  try  to,  my  darling.  It  don't  concern 
us,  and  it  will  do  no  good  to  recall  it.  I  don't  want  to 
prejudice  you  against  your  friends,  Dorethea,  but  let  me 
tell  you  frankly  that  I  distrust  both  Mrs.  Coleman 
Leeds  and  Count  von  Hardenburg." 

"  Oh,  Felix ;  how  can  you  ?  I  am  sure  you  wrong  the 
Count.     We  have  known  him  so  long,  and  he  is  devoted 

to  papa." 

"And  how  is  it  about  papa's   daughter?"  I   asked, 

quietly. 

"Oh!  as  for  me,"  and  she  laughed  merrily,  "he  is 
very  fond  of  me,  and  always  has  been.  He  treats  me 
quite  as  if  I  were  a  little  ignorant  sister.  I  just  adore 
the  Count.  You  can't  shake  my  good  opinion  of  him, 
Felix." 

"  I  don't  wish  to,  seeing  that  your  liking  has  such  a, 
substantial  basis;  but  the  widow,  my  dear  Dorethea  — 
are  her  claims  upon  your  aifection  and  confidence  as 
great  ?  " 


SIAST. 

,ying  just  as  we 

t  think  were  in- 
T  not  remember 

r,  or  rather  Mrs. 
larsh,  and  almost 

iteil. 

ing  out  of  breath. 
I,  Felix?  Don't 
Miril  her  mention 
blosv,  although  I 

It  don't   concern 

I  don't  want  to 

•ethea,  but  let  me 

;h  Mrs.   Coleman 

ire  you  wrong  the 
and  he  is  devoted 

jhter?"  I   asked, 

I  merrily,  "he  is 
n.  He  treats  me 
ter.  I  just  adore 
I  opinion  of  liim, 

liking  has  such  a 

dear  Dorethea — ■ 

,nd    confidence  as 


THK  STKANOE  STOliV   OF   A   I'lCTUUK. 


2H9 


"  Now  Felix,  you  must  not  push  me  too  far,  and  make 
me  say  unkind  things  about  a  guest.  You  know  how 
greatly  I  admire  her." 

"  Every  one  does,"  I  said,  curtly. 

"But  still  I  don't  think  tliere  is  any  real  sympathy 
between  us.  She  is  very  nice  to  me ;  yet,  1  know  I  like 
cousin  Edith  and  May  Claverhouse  much  better.  She 
is  charming  in  society ;  but  I  should  not  like  to  live 
with  her." 

"  Well,  my  darling,  I  don't  mean  you  shall ;  therefore, 
we  must  hasten  our  marriage." 

"  Oh,  Felix,  how  cruel  you  are  !  I  believe  you  think 
papa -^  oh,  it  is  impossible!  And,  unable  to  Unisli  the 
sentence,  she  turned  away  her  head  to  hide  her  tears. 

We  were  just  in  time  to  see  Lord  Hardmoor  stooping 
laboriously  to  unfasten  Mrs.  Coleman  Leeds'  skates,  and 
to  hear  some  of  the  effusions  of  pleasure  with  which  he 
graced  his  rather  awkward  services. 

"  I  know  we  kept  you  waiting  too  long ;  but  the  ice 
was  perfect,  and  one  goes  so  rapidly  —  too  rapidly.  I 
shall  enjoy  the  walk  back,"  she  added,  in  a  confidential 
tone.    "  It  will  be  quite  a  rest,  after  that  tiresome  whirl." 

Lord  Hardmoor  was  beaming  with  happiness  as  she 
took  his  arm  and  smiled  bewitchingly  in  Ids  face. 

After  the  skating  party,  there  were  several  days  of 
unpleasant  weather,  which  mostly  confined  us  to  the 
house.  But,  nevertheless,  the  time  passed  delightfully. 
Lord  Hardmoor  was  a  most  agreeable  host ;  always 
cheerful,  attentive,  and  constant  in  his  efforts  for  the 
amusement  and  comfort  of  all. 

The  billiard-room,  which  was  the  most  attractive  part 
of  the  house,  was  the  usual  meeting-place  during  the  day. 
A  wide  fireplace  piled  with  logs  made  it  very  cheerful. 


f:„mmts$ifms&':U 


200 


THK   STOIIY   OF   AN    KNTHU8IAST. 


The  lively  click  of  the  balls,  the  light  imisic!,  the  cureless 
laughter  and  merry  talk,  nuule  one  feel  perfectly  at 
home,  and  free  to  amuse  himself  in  any  way  ho  pleased. 
Then  there  were  a  great  many  visitors  from  the  neigh- 
boring country-houses,  who  sat  in  their  riding  things 
while  they  drank  tea  and  gossiped  good-naturedly,  or 
joined  the  musical  group  around  the  piano,  or  took  a 
hand  at  cards  with  Lord  and  Lady  Claverhouse,  who 
were  devoted  to  whist;  while  Lord  Hardmoor  and  Mrs. 
Coleman  Leeds  played  cliess,  apart  in  a  corner,  inter- 
changing a  great  many  ardent  smiles  and  confidential 
remarks,  which  they  fancied  were  unobserved  by  those 

around  them, 

In  the  few  odd  moments  that  I  could  find  an  opportu- 
nity of  talking  with  Lord  Hardmoor  alone,  he  discussed 
my  affairs  very  freely,  and  with  much  interest,  and 
seemed  rather  anxious  that  our  marriage  should  take 
place  as  soon  as  practicable. 

"When  the  Christmas-party  here  breaks  up,"  he 
said,  "  we  have  promised  to  pass  a  few  weeks  at  Braxton 
Hall.  Then,  I  shall  take  Dorethea  up  to  town  to  select 
her  trousseau,  and  the  wedding  had  better  take  place 
before  the  beginning  of  the  season." 

"  Dorethea  wishes  to  be  married  at  Hardmoor,"  I  re- 
marked. 

"  Certainly.  We  will  return  here  for  a  month  or  so. 
It  is  my  intention,  while  you  are  away  on  your  honey- 
moon trip,  to  tak3  a  little  journey  myself.  I  shall  find 
the  Hall  very  lonely  without  Dorethea,"  he  added,  as  a 
reason  for  the  intended  journey. 

"  But  you  will  have  to  learn  to  do  without  her,"  I 
ventured,  "  as  I  have  always  supposed  it  was  your  in- 
tention that  we  should  live  at  Marklaud  Place." 


HA8T. 


THK   8TUAN0K  STOKV   OK   A    IMOTUUK. 


t)( 


!>1 


isin,  the  ciireli'ss 
el  porfectly  at 
way  lie  pleased, 
truiu  the  neigh- 
iv  rilling  things 
od-nutuiedly,  or 
)iano,  or  took  a 
laverhouse,  who 
dmoor  and  Mrs. 
a  corner,  inter- 
and  confidential 
served  by  those 

find  an  opportu- 
me,  he  discussed 
3h  interest,  and 
age  should  take 

breaks  up,"  he 
iveeks  at  Braxton 
;o  town  to  select 
)etter  take  place 

Hardmoor,"  I  re- 

3r  a  month  or  so. 
f  on  your  honey- 
elf.  I  shall  find 
1,,"  he  added,  as  a 

3  without  her,"  I 
d  it  was  your  in- 
d  Place." 


"  Vcs,  of  course.  Your  estate  has  been  nt-glccted 
long  enough."  Then,  witli  some  confusion  —  '•  1  must  try 
to  accoMUuodato  niysidf  to  the  situation.  I  must  make 
some  arrangenu'uts  for  my  happiness  apart  from  Dore- 
thea.  Wlien  a  daughter  marries,  one  can't  look  to  her 
for  companionship.  1  am  still  a  youn;^'  man,  and  I  can't 
be  expected  to  pass  the  remainder  of  my  life  without 
domestic  ties.  However,  it  is  premature  to  speak  of  my 
own  plans.  I  want  first  to  see  you  and  Dorothea 
settled." 

"  It  cannot  be  too  soon  for  me,"  I  replied.     "It  only 
,  remains  to  fix  the  day,  which  I  shall  urge  may  be  as 
soon  as  possible." 

"  Well,  we  will  settle  that ;  and,  my  dear  boy,  in  the 
meantime,  pray  remember  that  there  is  some  one  in  the 
house  beside  Dorethea.  Exert  yourself  a  little  to  help 
amuse  my  guests.  I'm  afraid  :Miss  Claverhonse  feels 
herself  neglected  sometimes ;  and  do  me  the  favor  to 
give  Dorethea  a  hint  to  be  a  little  less  formal  with  Mrs. 
Coleman  Leeds.  She  is  a  charming  woman,  and  I  want 
her  to  receive  especial  attention." 

"Certainly,  I  will  do  all  I  can  to  carry  out  your 
wishes,"  I  returned,  with  a  confidential  smile,  and  an  af- 
fectation of  understanding  the  situation.  "  But  I  fancy 
^Irs.  Coleman  Leeds  only  cares  for  attention  from  one 
quarter  ;  any  other  might  bore  her." 

"  What !  You  don't  mean  that  she  likes  Von  Har- 
denburg  ?  "  he  asked,  eagerly  and  anxiously. 

"  Oh,  no,  it  is  not  the  Count.  If  you  don't  see  whom 
she  prefers,  you  are  not  as  observing  as  others." 

Lord  Hardmoor  blushed  to  the  eyes,  and  then  laughed 
heartily.  "Dear  me!  Is  it  possible ?  You  young  peo- 
ple see  too  much.    But  wasn't  she  exquisite  last  evening  ? 


j.:»nwiW!i.i'.ji't-W-»ini.»  ■»  i;!!*.'!; 


202 


Tin:   HTf)llY   Ol'   AN    KNTI11J81AHT. 


Sh..  c.Ttiunlv  has  wondorful  talent,  aixl  is  one  vi  the 
loveliest  wouuMi  1  have  ever  known.  Oh,  by  the  way, 
ean't  you  h-li.  Dorethca  with  the  invitations  ior  the 
dance  Christinas  week  ?  U't  me  see,  it  is  only  ten  days 
off,  ami  they  must  l.e  sent  at  once";  ami  he  hurneil 
away,  ratliant  witli  satisfaction,  and  as  confident  as  a 
boy  over  his  first  love-affair. 

The  days  passed  away  in  tlie  usual  festivities  of 
Christmas  holidays;  other  guests  arrived,  and  there 
were  dinners,  theatricals,  iinin-omptu  dances,  music,  and 
card  parties,  with  numerous  out-door  amusements  svhen 
the  weather  permitted.  Dorethea  was  kept  away  from 
me  a  great  deal  by  long  consultations  with  the  liouse- 
keeper,  and  frequent  discussion  with  Walter's  wife,  wlio 
assisted  her  greatly  in  her  onerous  duties  as  a  hostess. 
Therefore  I  had  many  opportunities  of  conversing  with 
Count  von  Hardenburg,  whom  1  found  to  be  a  man  ot 
uncommon  attainments.  ■.,    i  • 

lu  spite  of  my  distrust,  I  was  fascinated  with  his 
powerful  intellect,  his  universal  knowledge,  that  em- 
braced everything  ancient  as  well  as  modern,  and, 
more  than  all  else,  his  devotion  to  art.  He  was  an 
artist  to  the  very  core  of  his  being,  and  why  he  did 
not  paint  was  a  mystery  to  me.  Among  the  few  sketches 
that  he  had  presented  to  Lord  Hardmoor,  I  discovered 
some  that  bore  the  stamp  of  great  and  original  genius, 
as  well  as  a  thorough  acquaintance  with  the  technicalities 
of  art,  and  a  profound  feeling  for  the  truth  and  beauty 

of  nature.  , 

He  evidently  preferred  the  modern  German  school 
rather  than  the  French,  but  thouglit  the  early  Italian 
masters  the  only  painters  wortliy  of  worship.  He 
was   as  Lord  Hardmoor  said,  so  intimately  acquainted 


HIAHT. 


TIIK   8TUANOK   8TOKY   OF   A   VWTVHK. 


298 


1(1  is  one  cf  tlio 
I  >li,  by  tlve  way, 
citations  for  the 
is  only  ten  days 
)  and  he  Inirried 
IS  confident  as  a 

aal  festivities  of 
rived,  and  there 
anci>»,  music,  and 
imusemeiits  when 
1  kept  away  from 
1  with  the  liouae- 
^alter's  wife,  wlio 
uties  as  a  hostess, 
f  conversing  with 
id  to  be  a  man  of 

scinated  with  his 
iwledge,  that  era- 
as  modern,  and, 
art.  He  was  an 
,  and  why  he  did 
ig  the  few  sketches 
moor,  I  discovered 
nd  original  genius, 
1  the  technicalities 
e  truth  and  beauty 

rn   German  school 

b  the  early  Italian 

of   worship.      He 

imately  acquainted 


with  every  school  and  master,  so  thoroughly  educated 
in  the  difft-rent  style  and  manner  of  each,  and  his  opin- 
ion was  of  sutih  value,  that  I  wished  to  Hju'ak  to  him 
about  the  lost  Raphael,  but  wa.s  deterred  by  the  fear  that 
my  conlidcnee  might  be  used  to  my  disadvantage  should 
the  picture  ever  ap])ear  before  tlie  pul)lic. 

One  day  we  were  discussing  the  original  stiidies  of 
the  old  masters,  and  with  much  wariness  I  led  the  con- 
versation to  his  collection  of  engraved  (copies.  1  said 
I  had  seen  the  head  with  tlio  black  berretta,  and  spoke 
of  that  as  an  excellent  example  of  Kaphael's  manner  of 
treating  his  subject. 

He  replied  that  he  was  familiar  with  the  drawing,  and 
had  examined  it  carefully  when  last  in  Venice,  and 
almost  startled  me  into  betraying  my  secret  by  asking 
me  if  I  did  not  think  it  was  the  study  for  the  Violin- 
player,  or  the  boy  of  the  Louvre;  and  while  I  was 
trying  to  frame  a  reply  he  added,  carelessly,  that  he 
believed  it  was  the  opinion  of  some  that  liai)hael  had 
painted  another  head  from  that  study,  which  had  disap- 
l)eared  ;  and  it  was  not  unlikely.  No  doubt,  there  were 
a  number  of  his  pictures  of  wliich  there  was  no  history, 
hidden  away  in  obscure  corners,  that  would  be  discov- 
ered in  time. 

Had  ha  learned  my  secret  from  Lord  Hard  moor,  and 
was  he  trying  to  draw  me  out  ?  I  could  not  tell ;  but 
I  decided  to  keep  my  own  counsel.  . 

vn. 

Life  went  on  merrily  at  the  Hall.  Christmas  week 
drew  near,  and  Dorethea  was  so  much  engaged  that  1 
could  scarcely  get  time  for  a  little  chat.     .Sometimes  I 


mm 


muumammiim 


iMWdlKiiiimioiiiii 


204 


THK   STOIlY   OK   AN    K.NTIIIIHIAST. 


roproacht'd  her,  whnii  she  woiiM  liuiKliii'K'ly  i"''*"''*.  "♦•'•' 
IMix!  let  me  havo  my  hwiUnn  iw.nv  ;  I  shall  soon  Ioho 
it,  iind  you  will  have  fiinviuli  of  my  «'"''''^y  h'  '^'''^  ''>'•" 
Then  biie  would  niu  off  to  HU-j,'.'st  a  new  amusement, 
give  an  order,  or  discuss  some  (luestion  of  impoitaneo 
with  Edith,  who  \sas  invaluable  to  her  in  thoso  busy 

days. 

The  Christmas-week  ball  was  the  erowniuK  event  ol 
nil  the  other  festivities.  X  la-'^e  inimber  of  invitations 
were  sent  out.  The  county  familics.eamo  from  lonj;  dis- 
tances, and  all  the  best  peoi-U^  from  the  neighboring 
towns  served  to  swell  the  gay  throng. 

The   handsome   ball-room  was  beautifully  decorated, 
and  the  musicians  down  from  London  were  concealed  by 
a  screen  of  flowers  and  spreading  palms.     The  typical 
holly  and  mistletoe  Inuig  in  festoons  and  wreaths,  and 
entwined   the  graceful  marble  columns   that  separated 
the    ball-room    from    the    conservatory.     Within    that 
green  and  blossoming  retreat,  colored  lamps  shed  a  soft, 
rosy  glow,  and  the  fountain  sparkled  and  splashed  over 
the  bed  of  ferns  and  velvety  mosses.     It  was  a  delight 
fid  place  for  a  promenade  after  dancring,  and  the  little 
sequestered  nooks,  with  pretty  rusti(!  seats  and  screening 
vines,  seemed  planned  on  purpose  for  a  quiet  flirtation. 

Lord  Hardmoor  looked  ineffably  happy,  as  he  stood 
with  Dorethea  at  his  side  receiving  his  guests  ;  while 
lyirs.  Coleman  Leeds,  surrounded  by  a  group  of  gentle- 
men, was  superbly  beautiful  in  a  gold-colored  satin  gown 
covered  with  white  lace,  her  lovely  neck  and  arms  encir- 
cled  with  diamonds,  which  were  no  brighter  than  the 
vivacious  glances  of  her  dark  eyes;  and  Dorothea  was 
simply  l)e witching  in  her  .soft  white  India  silk  and 
pearls,  her  eyes  as  blue  as  sapphires ;  and  her  yellow 


I  AST. 


TIIK  HTKANOK   STOBV  OK    A    t^lirVVllK. 


2% 


i]y  rctoit,  "Oh, 

hIiuII    MOdll    Idhh 

fly  l>y  iiutl  l>y." 
lew  luimsi'iuont, 
1  (if  iiniiortiincn 
!•  ill  tliost!  busy 

)\vniiiy  event  of 
V  of  iiivitiitions 
HI  from  lonjj  ilis- 
tho  neighboring 

i fully  decorated, 
■ere  eotuiealed  by 
us,     Tlie  typical 
ind  wreaths,  and 
s   that  separated 
y.     Within    that 
[imps  shed  a  soft, 
lid  splashed  over 
[t  was  a  d»'light 
ig,  and  the  Mttlo 
ats  and  screening 
,  quiet  flirtation, 
ppy,  as  he  stood 
lis  guests  ;  while 
group  of  gentle- 
olored  satin  gown 
k  and  arms  encir- 
lirighter  than  the 
iiid  Dorethea  was 
3   India   silk   and 
;  and  her  yellow 


hair,  piled  iiigh  on  li.  i  Ki'f^ft'ful  Jietiwl,  ]ooke<l  like  masHOS 
of  spun  gnld. 

1  could  not  force  myself  nwny  from  the  sight  of  h^r, 
she  was  so  winsome  aJul  sweet.  I  lingereil  near  until 
the  last  guest  had  arrived,  and  she  was  free;  then  I 
claimed  her  for  a  waltz,  and  away  we  lloated  among 
the  gay  crowd,  as  happy  as  souls  can  ever  be  out  of 
jiavadise. 

Later  in  the  evening,  I  saw  Lord  ilardmoor  enter  the 
conservatniy  willi  Mrs.  Coleman  Leeds  leaning  on  his 
arm.  Ilis  face  was  beaming  with  hapinnesH,  but  withal 
there  was  a  look  of  serious  tirmness  tliat  told  jilainly  he 
had  reached  a  crisis  in  his  life,  which  must  bo  passed 
then  and  there. 

I  did  not  mean  to  be  unduly  curious,  but  a  peculiar 
attraction  ke|)t  me  near  the  conservatory  where  I  could 
see  them  when  they  returned  to  the  ball-room.  It 
seemed  to  nie  that  they  were  absent  niiicli  longer  than 
was  necessiiry,  even  for  a  declaration  of  love.  When 
they  finally  aiipeared.  I  knew  that  Lady  Ilardmoor's 
vii(!aiit  place  would  soon  be  tilled,  and,  in  spite  of  myself, 
I  felt  a  thrill  of  reimgnance  at  the  thought. 

Lord  Hardmooi's  usually  tlorid  face  Avas  quite  pale, 
:;iid  his  lijis  trembled  nervously,  yet  his  «'yes  were  beam- 
ing with  hapi)iness,  and  the  look  he  bent  on  his  com- 
panion was  full  of  passionate  devotion.  1  did  not  like 
Mis.  Coleman  Leeds'  expression  at  that  moment.  It 
was  haughty  and  triumphant,  like  one  wlio  is  satislicd 
with  the  success  of  an  important  scheme.  As  she 
passed  Count  von  Hardenburg,  with  Dorethea  on  his 
arm,  she  shot  an  expressive  glance  from  under  her  white 
lids,  which  was  more  eloquent  th  in  words. 

For  some    time,   I   stood    Ufar    the    door  watching 


^*>j^mi'f^»p-tmm!r»'^r'-p''''^9amKvrxf*''i»^fnm%t«iv 


296  THE   STOUV   OF   AN   ENTHUSIAST. 

Dorethea  who  was  waltzing  with  the  Count.  How  hand- 
some  he  was,  and  how  well  they  looked  together !  \\  ith 
what  an  air  of  gentle  devotion  he  bent  over  her;  how 
bright  and  sweet  her  face  was,  upraised  to  his  like  a 
fair  flov/er  turning  to  the  sun. 

I  was  jealous,  undeniably  jealous  for  the  first  time. 
I  could  endure  the  sight  no  longer,  so  I  slipped  into  the 
conservatory,  which  was  quite  empty,  and  ensconced 
myself  in  one  of  the  nooks  hidden  by  its  drapery  of 
vines,  where  the  music  and  the  murmur  of  voices,  min- 
gled with  the  cool  splash  of  the  fountain,  soothed  and 
quieted  the  foolish  unrest  of  my  heart ;  and  I  fell  to 
thinking  of  my  old  life,  of  Rome,  of  Paul  and  Camille, 
and  the  angelic  face  of  La  Santa  came  vividly  before 

me.  I 

Already  these  congenial,  happy  days  were  but  a 
memory.  My  ambition  was  dying  out.  I  was  a  fash- 
ionable idler,  spending  my  time  in  frivolous  folly.  I 
had  once  been  so  earnest  and  stu.lious,  so  miserly  of  my 
time  ;  now  it  was  slipping  away  and  leaving  no  trace  ot 
its  flight.  What  was  it  to  be  in  the  coming  years  .''  a 
little  fleeting  pleasure,  and  then  the  night  when  no  man 

can  work.  ,     ,    ,       l      ,-i 

As  always,  the  dark-brooding  spirit  had  entered  un- 
bidden in  the  midst  of  music  and  mirth,  and  bade  me 
pause  and  consider  if  it  were  well  to  eat  of  this  Dead-sea 
fruit  that  would  turn  to  ashes  on  my  lips,  feuddenly 
through  the  darkness  of  my  soul,  shone  a  gveat  light. 
Why  not  marry  Dorethea  and  return  to  my  old  lite 
which  would  be  brighter  and  sweeter  for  her  presence? 
For  a  moment  I  felt  profoundly  grateful  to  Mrs.  Cole- 
man Leeds  for  having  won  Lord  Hardmoor  s  love. 
With  a  new  wife  and  other  children,  probably,  to  hll  his 


SI 


iM^6i»;4"  ■4Wi*H'i|i»>i^ri  MiiiiifiwiiMaw^  K  -) 


m^iimm^'t^M<mnfi^^  <pw»#M 


I  \m'  ■ 


■  ■»iU».M.» 


IUS1A8T. 

:;ount.  How  hand- 
id  together !  With 
lent  over  her ;  how 
lised  to  his  like  a 

for  the  first  time. 
3  I  slipped  into  the 
)ty,  and  ensconced 
by  its  drapery  of 
rmur  of  voices,  min- 
mtain,  soothed  and 
eart;  and  I  fell  to 
f  Paul  and  Camille, 
came  vividly  before 

days  were  but  a 
out.  I  was  a  fash- 
1  frivolous  folly.  I 
LIS,  so  miserly  of  my 
1  leaving  no  trace  of 
,he  coming  years  ?  a 
i  night  when  no  man 

irit  had  entered  un- 
mirth,  and  bade  me 

0  eat  of  this  Dead-sea 
my  lips.     Suddenly 

shone  a  great  light. 

turn  to  my  old  life, 

ter  for  her  presence  ? 

rateful  to  ^Mrs.  Cole- 

■d    Hardmoor's   love. 

n,  probably,  to  fill  his 


Tin?  STUANC.K   STOllV   OV   A    IMCTUKH. 


297 


heart,  what  was  to  hinder  Dorethca  from  following  me 
wherever  I  wished  to  go.  Hitherto  her  objection  to 
leaving  England  had  been  her  father,  but  now  it  would 
be  different;  he  would  not  need  her,  and  she  would  be 
deprived,  by  these  new  ties,  of  his  exclusive  affection, 
which  would  render  it  easier  for  her  to  leave  him. 

Thinking  of  all  this  with  great  satisfaction,  I  sat 
there  quite  hidden  from  sight,  while  numbers  of  people 
passed  and  repassed;  and  scraps  of  uninteresting  con- 
versation fell  unheeded  on  my  ear,  until  the  low,  impres- 
sive voice  of  Count  von  Hardenburg  attracted  ray 
attention.  He  was  saying  to  his  companion,  whom  I 
knew  to  be  Mrs.  Coleman  Leeds,  "  So  it  is  all  settled, 
and  you  have  landed  him  securely." 

"Don't  be  brutal.  I  did  not  angle  for  him  as  you 
intimate.  It  was  not  necessary.  He  appreciates  me 
more  than  you  do." 

"There,  ray  friend,  you  are  mistaken.  No  one  can 
appreciate  you  as  I  do.  You  forget  that  through  me 
you  first  became  the  fashion.  You  were  quite  unknown 
until  I  stamped  you  a  genius.  When  you  reproach  me 
you  are  ungrateful." 

"  Oh,  pshaw !  I  owe  you  for  nothing  but'  heartaches ; 
others  would  have  discovered  my  good  qualities,  if  you 
had  not." 

"  But  others  would  not  be  as  unselfish  as  I  am.  I  am 
willing  to  give  you  to  my  friend,  that  you  may  have  an 
assured  position,  title,  wealth,  and  honor." 

"  What  hinders  you  from  giving  me  all  these  ?  " 

"Now,  dear  child,  be  reasonable.  You  know  very 
well  that  I  have  neither  wealth  nor  an  estate  ;  and,  with- 
out these,  a  title  is  a  barren  honor.  I  am  living  every 
day  beyond  my  income,  and  my  small  fortune  is  about 


»IMJUJJI*MI«1W» 


Jt».  *!WiWliliWJ**-'.^^^juWliAl'^-tJW.I»^ailw.ftJJJi.'^'..t.  im^»^»  i^P* 


208 


TFtH  STOKY   OF   AN   ENTHlTSrASf. 


exhtinsted.  Hoav,  then,  could  we  exist  ?  You  have  ex- 
pensive tastes,  and  so  have  T.  It  is  far  better  for  you 
to  marry  a  rieh  man,  and  I  — well,  if  I  ever  marry,  I 
must  seek  for  wealth  too," 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  understand  you  perfectly  ;  and  you  wish 
to  get  me  settled  respectably,  and  out  of  your  way, 
before  you  feel  free  to  urge  your  suit  with  her.  But 
your  plans  are  useless.  She  loves  her  young  enthusiast 
too  well.  You  can't  hope  to  fill  his  place  in  her  girlish 
heart.  Oh,  what  a  sin!  You  desire  youth,  purity,  and 
beauty ;  and  it  does  not  matter  if  I  am  sacrificed.  After 
loving  you  as  I  have,  do  you  think  this  old  man  can 
ever  take  your  place  in  my  heart  ?  It  is  most  cruel  of 
you  to  force  me  to  do  this." 

"My  dear  friend,  don't  be  sentimental.  You  must 
confess  that  I  have  been  very  generous  in  every  proof 
of  affection.  You  are  no  longer  a  girl ;  you  are  a  woman 
of  thirty-five.  Is  it  not  ?  In  a  few  years  your  beauty 
will  be  on  the  wane,  and  your  power  will  diminish  with 
it ;  but  as  Lady  Hardmoor  you  will  always  have  the 
influence  that  wealth  and  title  confer,  and  in  the  end 
you  will  think  it  much  more  valuable  than  mere  senti- 
mental affection." 

«  Oh,  how  coolly  you  can  reason  now  !  Once  love  con- 
trolled'the  universe  for  you.  It  was  the  one  desirable 
thing  in  existence.  Now  it  is  only  a  foolish  sentiment." 
"  For  the  love  of  Heaven,  don't  upbraid  me !  God 
knows  how  I  have  toiled  to  bring  this  about;  and  now, 
when  you  should  be  happy  and  grateful,  you  accuse  me 
of  cruelty  to  you.  If  you  really  care  so  much  for  me, 
which  is  in  no  way  evident,  pray,  continue  to  do  so. 
Your  marriage  need  not  change  our  relations.  We  can 
still  be  excellent  friends." 


tr  ^m  ■■  nm  a' jWff'T:  tf jp 


-.4Sl'U^f)^V-\ 


'  P»i>«"<y'.'>*"n  w  ■■■M»^Mi|Pi;  Biff'*"' 


UAST. 

You  have  ex- 

ir  \)etter  for  you 

I  ever  many,  I 

y  ;  and  you  wish 
it  of  your  way, 
with  her.  But 
young  enthusiast 
ice  in  her  girlish 
outh,  purity,  and 
sacrificed.  After 
bis  old  man  can 
is  most  cruel  of 

ntal.  You  must 
is  in  every  proof 
you  are  a  woman 
yrears  your  beauty 
ill  diminish  with 
always  have  the 
,  and  in  the  end 
;  than  mere  senti- 

!  Once  love  con- 
the  one  desirable 
oolish  sentiment." 
pbraid  me !  God 
3  about ;  and  now, 
ul,  you  accuse  me 

so  much  for  me, 
ontinue  to  do  so. 
•elations.     We  can 


THE   STRANOE   RTOHY   OF  A   PICTUUE. 


2l»9 


"Never!"  she  replied,  in  a  low,  intense  voice,  wliich 
was  full  of  scorn  and  passion,  "  I  shall  come  to  despise 
you,  to  hate  you  as  you  deserve.  You  are  false  to  me, 
and  false  to  your  friend  —  and  I  am  no  better.  Bah  !  I 
liate  myself.  I  wonder  the  earth  does  not  open  and 
swallow  us  both  out  of  the  light  of  day,  away  from  the 
honest  eyes  of  our  dupes." 

"Hush,  hush!  don't  be  so  tragic.  Don't  use  such 
strong  expressions.  Home  one  may  overhear  us.  It 
seems  to  me  rather  late  for  you  to  be  taken  with  these 
spasms  of  conscience.  You  have  been  as  eager  in  this 
hunt  as  I  have.  Should  you  have  liked  it  if  you  had 
not  brought  down  your  game  ?  " 

"I  should  have  hated  you  less,"  she  muttered,  as  some 
one  entered  and  approached  them. 

In  an  instant  both  were  transformed.  Mrs.  Coleman 
Leeds  shook  out  the  rich  folds  of  her  dress,  and  laugh- 
ingly declared  that  she  was  quite  rested,  and  could 
dance  the  remainder  of  the  night. 

"I  think  that  is  our  waltz  now,"  said  Count  von 
Hardenburg;  and  they  hurried  away,  talking  lightly, 
wliile  I  sat  there  guilty  and  disgusted  with  myself  for 
remaining  an  unwilling  witness  to  their  startling  con- 
fidences, and  filled  with  horror  and  rage  at  the 
cruel  deception  of  which  Lord  Hardmoor  was  the 
victim. 

I  felt  like  one  in  a  nightmare,  and  shook  myself  to  be 
sure  that  I  was  awake.  Then  I  ventured  out  by  a  side 
door,  and  hurried  to  my  room,  where  I  could  collect  my 
thoughts,  and  regain  the  necessary  composure  before  I 
returned  to  the  ball-room. 

A  half-hour  later,  as  I  descended  the  stairs,  the  crowd 
was  surging  toward  the  supper-room ;  and,  seeing  Miss 


I 


■miiiiiuiiwm— WWxrtJiliMi 


liSMmtmitrnmHUim 


I 


mMmm 


iJOO 


TIIK  STOltY   OV   AK    KXTHITSIAST. 


Olavorhouse  without  an  escort,  I  offered  her  my  arm, 
anil  we  followed  the  others. 

After  I  retired  to  my  room,  T  eonld  neither  sleep  nor 
rest.     I  was  tortnved  by  the  thonght  of  my  mifortunate 
position.     What  ought  I  to  doV     To  tell  Lord  Harcl- 
Lor  the  truth,  I  well   knew,  would    -^  -^^  J«  - 
good,  hut  would  make  him  my  enemy    or  lite.     He  was 
fn  that  insane  state  of  infatuation  when  .t  would  be 
impossible  to  convince  him  of  the  unwortlnness  of  his 
idol;  and  it  would  be  eciually  difficult  to  persuade  h,m 
of  the  dishonorable  character  of  Count  von  Hardenburg. 
They  had  been  intimate  so  long,  and  the  clever  Cxerman 
had  gained  such  an  influence  over  the  inferior  mind  of 
his  too  credulous  victim,  that  nothing  short  of  a  miracle 
would  shake  his  confidence. 

Then,  again,  to  allow  him  -  Dorethea's  father -to  be 
so  grossly  deceived  by  this  intriguing  woman  and  her 
base  accomplice  seemed  horrible  to  think  of  What 
could  I  do  ?  What  was  best  ?  I  could  consult  no  one. 
I  must  decide  for  myself. 

In  this  distressing  dilemma  the  morning  passed  away. 
I  had  promised  Dorethea  to  walk  with  her,  and  it  was 
time  to  leave  my  room,  but  I  could  not  bring  myself  to 
meet  that  man  and  woman  t^e  to  face.  So  I  wrote  a 
little  note  to  Dorethea,  asking  her  to  excuse  me,  as  I 
was  suffering  with  a  violent  headache  Shortly  after 
I  saw  her  with  Miss  Claverhouse  and  Von  Hardenburg 
walking  down  the   avenue,    in    the    direction    of    the 

""'m^s."  Coleman  Leeds  was  probably  in  her  room,  and 
Lord  Hardmoor  might  be  alone  in  his  study,  where  he 
usually  spent  some  time  in  the  morning.  Feeling  that 
it  was  impossible  to  endure  my  unhappy  situation,  I 


JSIAST. 

sred  her  my  arm, 

neither  sleep  nor 

if  my  unfortunate 

tell  Lord  Hard- 

not  only  do  no 

for  life.  He  was 
tvhen  it  would  be 
iwortliiness  of  his 
b  to  persuade  him 
t  von  Hardenburg. 
the  clever  German 
e  inferior  mind  of 

short  of  a  miracle 

,ea's  father  — to  be 
ig  woman  an<l  her 
)  think  of.  What 
ttld  consult  no  one. 

)rning  passed  away, 
ith  her,  and  it  was 
not  bring  myself  to 
face.  So  I  wrote  a 
to  excuse  me,  as  I 
Lche.  Shortly  after 
nd  Von  Hardenburg 
>    direction    of    the 

y  in  her  room,  and 
his  study,  where  he 
rning.  Feeling  that 
inhappy  situation,  I 


THK  STRANGE   STORY   OP  A  PICTURE. 


801 


determined  to  go  to  hiin  and  tell  him  the  whole  truth, 
let  tlie  consequences  be  what  they  might. 

I  found  him  alone,  as  I  hoped,  and,  with  my  usual 
impetuosity,  I  plungcMl  at  once  into  the  subject. 

"  Lord  Hardmoor,"  I  said,  firmly  and  gently,  "  I  am 
come  on  a  very  unpleasant  errand,  and  I  am  afraid  I 
shall  offend  you  seriously  when  I  tell  you  of  something 
that  occurred  last  niglit.  I  was  unfortunate  enough  to 
overhear  a  conversation  between  Count  von  Hardenburg 
and  Mrs.  Colenum  Leeds  —  " 

"  Well,"  interrujjted  his  lordship,  with  a  puzzled  look, 
'*  what  of  it  ?  Was  there  anytb.ing  remarkable  in 
that?" 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  coldly.  "It  certainly  was  a  remark- 
able conversation  to  occur  between  a  lady  and  gentle- 
man who  are  your  friends  and  guests." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  there  was  anything  objection- 
able ?  "  he  cried,  excitedly,  "  anything  improper  ?  Speak 
out;  say  frankly  what  you  mean.  Don't  come  to  me 
with  riddles  and  insinuations." 

"  I  don't  wish  to,"  I  replied,  resolutely ;  "  neither  do  I 
wish  to  repeat  the  conversation.  I  hope  it  will  be  only 
necessary  for  me  to  tell  you  that  you  have  been  de- 
I'eived  in  both  the  man  and  the  woman.  They  are 
unworthy  of  your  friendship;  they  are  a  pair  of  base 
plotters." 

For  a  moment  I  was  appalled  at  the  storm  I  had 
raised.  Lord  Hardmoor  turned  purple  with  rage,  and, 
starting  up,  he  advanced  upon  me,  as  if  about  to  strike 
me.  I  looked  at  him  unflinchingly,  and  repeated  my 
statement  coldly  and  firmly. 

"How  dare  you  say  such  a  thing  of — of  my  friend?" 
lie  gasped ;  "  and  do  you  know  that  the  woman  you  call 
a  base  plotter  is  my  promised  wife  ?  " 


—  JiiiMmi 


802  THE   STORY   OF   AN   ENTHUSIAST. 

"I  suspected  it,  and  therefore  I  wish  to  save  you  the 
shame  of  marrying  her,  to  discover  later  what  I  have 
accidentally  discovered  now." 

"Your  effrontery  is  maddening,  but  your  vile  slander 
does  not  move  n.e  in  the  least.     The  Count  is  n.y  tried 
and  trusted   friend ;    a   man  of  unquestionable   honor. 
The  lady -and  let  me  tell  you  now  to  be  careful  how 
you  give  rein  to  your  tongue -is  beyond  any  damaging 
imputation.     The  powers  of  heaven  or  he  1  could  not 
maice   me  believe  aught  against  her."     He  paused  a 
moment  to  wipe  away  the  sweat  that  .^toodm  drops  on 
his  flushed  face;  and  then,  with  a  visible  effort,  he  said 
more  calmly,  "You  must  be  laboring  under  some  unfor- 
tunate mistake,  which  T  will  not  trouble  myself  even   o 
seek  an  explanation  of;  for  I  can't  think  you  so  utterly 
base  as  to  invent  such  .  tale,  especially  against  a  woman, 
and  the  one  who  i.    to  take  the  place  of  1  oi^thea  s 
mother.    You  have  wounded  me  deeply,  but  I   must 
conceal  it;  and  let  me  beg  of  you  to  have  some  consid- 
eration for   me.      Do    not  try  to  preaudice  Dorethea 
against  the  woman  I  love." 

"  I  never  meant  that  Dorethea  should  hear  a  breath  of 
this,"  I  cried,  angrily.  "  Do  you  think  I  would  soil  her 
pure  soul  with  such  a  shameful  story  ?  " 

"There!  you  have  said  enough,  birt  I  will  try  to  for- 
get it  I  presume  it  is  not  necessary  for  me  to  request 
the  utmost  politeness  from  you  to  my  guests  while  you 
remain  here.  You  may  go  now ;  I  have  nothing  more  to 
say.    When  we  meet   we  will  forget  this  unfortunate 

interview."  i.  i.  v„ 

He  said  this  significantly,  and  I  understood  what  he 
meant.  So,  with  a  cold  bow,  I  silently  withdrew,  and 
remained  alone  in  my  room  until  dinner. 


U8IAST. 


THE  STIIANGE  STORY  OF  A   PICTURE. 


808 


li  to  save  you  the 
later  what  I  have 

;  your  vile  shuuler 
Couut  is  my  tried 
iiestionablo  honor, 
tt)  be  careful  how 
roml  any  damaging 

or  hell  could  not 
r."     He  paused  a 

stood  in  drops  on 
sible  effort,  he  said 

under  some  unfor- 
ible  myself  even  to 
,hink  you  so  utterly 
ly  against  a  woman, 
ilace  of  Dorothea's 
leeply,  but  I  must 
,0  have  some  consid- 
prejudice  Dorethea 

uld  hear  a  breath  of 
.nk  I  would  soil  her 

lut  I  will  try  to  for- 
iry  for  me  to  request 
my  guests  while  you 
lave  nothing  more  to 
get  this  unfortunate 

understood  what  he 
[ently  withdrew,  and 
inner. 


VITI. 

No  sooner  liad  I  left  Lord  Ilardmoor  than  I  began  to 
regret  what  I  liad  done.  If  I  had  waited,  he  miglit  have 
discovered  the  truth  by  some  other  means.  As  it  was,  I 
had  made  a  terrible  mistake,  I  had  failed  to  convince 
him  of  the  truth  of  my  statement,  and  liad  changed 
him  from  a  friend  into  a  bitter  enemy.  I  was  sure 
that,  although  it  suited  him  to  pass  the  matter  over  in 
silence,  and  to  treat  me  with  the  utmost  politeness, 
in  his  heart  he  hated  me,  and  would  use  the  first  oppor- 
tunity to  punish  me. 

My  headache  served  as  an  excuse  for  my  silence  and 
abstraction  at  dinner,  where  I  found  myself  furtively 
watching  Count  von  Hardenburg  and  Mrs.  (Joleman 
Leeds.  How  differently  they  appeared  to  me  "now! 
What  had  become  of  the  woman's  grace  and  witchery  ? 
To  me  her  beauty  had  undergone  a  subtle  change ;  and 
I  mentally  compared  her  to  the  woman  in  Faust's  Wal- 
purgis  night,  from  whose  lovely  mouth  there  slipped  a 
red  mouse.  I  did  not  wish  to  appear  to  be  studying 
her,  but,  in  spite  of  myself,  my  eyes  continually  wan- 
dered to  the  head  of  the  table,  where  she  sat  proud  and 
triumphant,  talking  and  laugliing  with  more  than  her 
usual  vivacity;  while  his  lordship  took  no  pains  to 
conceal  his  admiration,  but  was  so  marked  in  his  devo- 
tion as  to  attract  Dorethea's  attention.  From  time  to 
time  the  poor  girl  gave  her  father  an  entreating  look, 
while  her  cheeks  flushed  painfully,  and  her  whole  man- 
ner betrayed  her  anxiety  and  surprise. 

The  situation  was  most  disagreeable,  and,  to  add  to  my 
annoyance,  I  surprised  Count  von  Hardenburg  watching 


30i  THE  STOUY  OF   AN  ENTHUSIAST. 

,n^  as  if  he  thought  I  Avas  in  some  way  the  e.use  of 

Do'rethea's  trouble;  ov  as  if  he  .liscoveve.!  that  m  n^e  a 

socvet  enemy  had  entered  the  eamp.     However,  the     in- 

.e  .  t  Uy  c'une  to  an  en.l,  as  everything  must,  whether 

asant  or  otherwise.     Dorothea  served  the  tea  u,  U. 

U,uving-roou>,  as   usual ;    at.d  the  Count  l.ngered  ne.u 

L  so  Jertiuaeiously  that  1  had  no  opportunity  tor  any 

eonversatiou  of  a  private  nature. 

The  next  n.orning  the  weather  softened,  and   he  seent 
was  good,  and  as  there  was  a  n.eet  at  Braxton  C;ommon 
ten  miles'  away,  the  hunting  party  started  early  .n  ou, 
to  be  there  at  the  appointed  tune.     Ihe  o  ly  lad       a 
the  Hall  who  followed  the  hounds  were  Mrs.  Colunan 
T.eeds  Miss  Claverhouse,  and  Dorothea. 

Lo  d  HardnK,<n.  took  the  lead,  with  the  dashmg  wulow 
who  was  u,agnitieent  in  the  saddle,  and,  as  there  wer 
Teveral  gentlen.en  to  eseort   Miss   Claverhouse,   Count 
von  Hardenbnrg,  with  the  most  ^f-^f^^:''^^^^ 
rode  up  to   Dorethea's   side,  and  held   his  position  as 
elosely  as  possible  all  through  the  day.     Again  I  was 
thwaited.     At  first  I  fancied  she  was  anxious  to  conhde 
tniouble  to  me,  but,  as  the  day  advaueed^e  see.e^ 
more  cheerful,  and  appeared  more  7««";\^«'Y;/  ^.  ^'^^ 
ation      If  at  times  her  eyes  wandered  in  her    athei  s 
.lireetion,  they  returned  to  meet  the  Count's  ge"tle  reas- 
suring gize  fixed  upon  her  as  if  there  was  a  secret  un- 
derstanding between  them. 

It  was  a  hard  day's  ride -a  long  run  over  a  rough 
eountry  and  horrible  roads,  made  almost  nnpassab  e  in 
Xces  by  the  recent  thaw;  and  every  one  was  tired  out 
except  Mrs.  Coleman  Leeds,  who  was  returning,  as  always 
triumphant,  with  the  brush  fastened  --"'^  h- 1-^  and 
her  face  as  fresh  and  smiling  as  when  she  first  set  out 


-—     mWiili 


im  Hill  /iiinniiiimiii 


rSIAST. 

^iiy  the  (\i»iHO  of 
red  that  in  me  a 
luwever,  the  din- 
iig  must,  whether 
>d  the  tea  in  the 
lint  lingeiHul  near 
portnnity  for  any 

lied,  and  the  scent 
liiaxton  Common, 
•ted  early  in  order 
The  only  ladies  at 
L're  Mrs.  Coleman 
a. 

the  dashing  widow, 
md,  as  there  were 
laverhonse,   Connt 
al  air  in  the  world, 
Id  his  position  as 
[lay.     Again  I  was 
anxious  to  confide 
vanced,  she  seemed 
jonciled  to  the  situ- 
red  in  her  father's 
Count's  gentle,  reas- 
!ve  was  a  secret  un- 

(T  run  over  a  rough 
Imost  imiiassable  in 
ry  one  v/as  tired  out 
returning,  as  always, 
around  her  hat,  and 
en  she  first  set  out 


THE  STUANCK  STOUY   OF  A    I'lCTUItK. 


305 


in  the  morning.  As  for  his  lordship,  ho  was  in  his 
natural  element  when  in  f\ill  pursuit,  with  the  hue  and 
halloo  sounding  in  his  ears  ;  and  he  certainly  looked  ten 
years  younger  in  the  saddle  than  he  did  in  the  drawing- 
room. 

Miss  Claverhouse  was  quite  faggtul,  and  Dorethea 
looked  like  a  lovely,  pale  flower  too  long  exposed  to  the 
ardent  kisses  of  the  sun.  1  felt  her  droop  and  tremble 
as  I  lifted  her  from  her  saddle,  and  her  eyes  were  moist 
iis  she  whispered,  "  Why  have  you  been  so  grave  and 
silent  all  day,  dear  Felix  ;  have  1  offended  you  ?  " 

"No,  no,  my  darling;  but  I  must  have  a  long  talk 
with  you  to-morrow,  alone." 

"  To-morrow  is  Sunday.  Very  well  ;  come  to  the 
west  corridor,  directly  after  service,  and  you  will  find 
me  there." 

It  rained  heavily,  and  I  think  few  attended  church 
beside  Lord  Ilardmoor  and  Dorethea.  I  waited  till 
long  after  midday  in  the  west  corridor  for  my  darling, 
and  was  about  giving  up  all  hope  of  seeing  her  alone 
when  she  came  hastily  toward  me,  walking  between  a 
double  row  of  ancestors,  who  smiled  or  frowned  on  her 
from  their  time-stained  canvases. 

Her  face  was  quite  pale,  and  her  eyes  red  from  weep- 
ing, and  altogether  she  looked  most  unhappy  as  she 
tried  to  smile  a  welcome. 

"  What  is  it,  my  darling  ?  "  I  asked,  as  I  took  her  in 
my  arms. 

For  a  moment  she  clung  to  me,  weeping  silently,  then, 
wiping  away  her  tears,  she  tried  to  speak  cheerfully.  "  I 
know  I  am  wrong,  Felix,  to  fret  about  a  thing  which 
must  be  right  or  papa  would  not  do  it.  I  know  it  will 
surprise  you  greatly  when  I  tell  you  that  he  is  engaged 
to  marry  Mrs.  Colemau  Leeds," 


aon 


THK  HTOnV   OK   AN    KNTIIUSIAST. 


"T  tlunight  so,"  I  ropliod,  curtly. 

"JIow  rould  you?  How  couM  any  ouo ;  and  dftir 
niauui  not  two  yoars  dead,"  she  cried,  wiMi  a  torrent  of 

tears. 

"My  dear  child,  it  is  useless  to  weep.  Calm  yourself 
and  let  UH  look  at  it  reasonably." 

"  I  know  it  is,"  she  returned,  stru>:«l''>K  hravely  to 
keep  back  her  tears.  "  I  siispeeted,  I  feared  j)ai>a  was 
interested  in  her;  but  I  did  not  think  he  had  offered 
himself  until  he  told  nin  this  morning.  I  have  just  left 
him,  and  I  am  afraid  he  is  not  jileased  with  me.  I  am 
sure  he  suspects  that  I  don't  approve  —  I  mean  that  I 
think  it  too  soon  ff)r  him  to  marr,  again.  However,  he 
assures  me  that  it  will  not  be  fo;  s.Mne  time;  not  until 
after  we  are  settled.  Oh,  Felix!  ?t  takes  all  the  poetry 
from  love  and  marriage.  To  think  of  papa's  allowing 
any  one  to  fill  mama's  place.  It  is  cruel  —  I  can't  think 
it  is  right  to  forget  so  soon  "  ;  and  again  she  burst  into 

sobs. 

"Now,  my  dear  child,"  I  said,  soothingly,  "don't  ex- 
aggerate your  trotl'le  by  a  feeling  of  false  sentiment. 
If  it  is  wrong  to  fcrgct,  and  I  don't  admit  that  a  man 
forgets  his  iirst  love  when  he  loves  again,  it  is  as  wrong 
to  forget  in  six  years  as  it  is  to  forget  in  a  year.  You 
must  look  at  it  reasonably.  The  chief  thing  to  con- 
sider is  whether  Mrs.  Coleman  Leeds  is  a  woman  to 
insure  your  father's  happiness." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  She  is  very  lovely  and  talented ; 
but "  —  here  a  pause,  and  a  moment's  reflection  —  "  but 
I  must  not  say,  even  to  you,  how  I  feel  about  it.  She 
■will  be  papa's  wife,  and  she  must  be  as  perfect  to  me  as 
she  is  to  him.  Count  von  Hardenburg  says  she  is  a 
yroman  of  the  most  generous  find  noble  character ;  and 


—  ■   I iimmipii  >^w|i— w— wi** 


ISIAST. 


y  Olio ;    and  dfar 
,vith  ii  lorrt'iit  of 

I.     C'alin  yoursplf 

^f^liuK  bravoly  to 
feared  papa  was 
k  lu!  had  offcif'd 
I  liavo  just  left 
.  with  nic.  I  am 
—  I  mean  that  I 
lin.  However,  ho 
le  time;  not  until 
kes  all  the  poetry 
if  papa's  allowing 
id  —  I  ean't  think 
;ain  she  burst  into 

;hinsly,  "don't  ox- 
f  false  sentiment, 
admit  that  a  man 
;ain,  it  is  as  wrong 
■t  in  a  year.  You 
iiief  thing  to  con- 
Is  is  a  woman  to 

vely  and  talented ; 
reflection  —  "  but 
'eel  about  it.  She 
18  perfect  to  me  as 
)urg  says  she  is  a 
ble  character;  anc| 


THK   8TKAN0K  8TOUY   OP   A   PICTUUK. 


807 


di'votes  herself  to  the  poor  and  suffering.     He  says  she 
is    very   fond  of    papa,   and   will   make  him  perfectly 

happy." 

"  Then  yon  have  discussed  the  subject  with  the 
(Jouiit  ?  "   I  asked,  coldly. 

"Certiiinly  I  have,"  she  replied,  widening  her  blue 
eyes  as  she  looked  at  me.  "  Vou  speak  us  though  I 
sliould  not  have  done  so." 

•'  What  interest  has  he  in  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Vou  forgtit  that  he  is  papa's  best  friend,  and  also 
an  intimate  friend  of  Mrs.  Coleman  Leeds.  It  was  once 
rumored  that  the  Count  and  she  were  engaged,  but  that 
was  not  true;  however,  he  admired  her  greatly,  and 
actually  proposed  to  her,  but  she  refused  him." 

"  My  dear  little  gossip,  how  do  you  know  all  this  ?  " 
I  asked,  half  impatiently. 

"  The  Count  told  me  so  "  ;  she  replied,  frankly.  "  He 
says  that  was  several  years  ago,  and  now  ho  loves  her 
like  a  sister." 

"  Dorothea,"  I  returned,  sternly,  "I  think  you  should 
not  be  on  such  confidential  terms  with  the  Count.  You 
are  too  young  to  discuss  his  love  affairs  with  him." 

"Why,  Felix,  you  surprise  me,"  she  said,  a  little 
haughtily.  "  What  harm  can  there  be  in  discussing  any 
subject  with  Count  von  Hardenburg  ?  You  forget  how 
very  intimate  he  has  been  with  us  for  years,  ever  since 
I  was  a  child ;  ho  is  like  one  of  our  family.'* 
"  Too  much  so,"  I  returned. 

"Is  it  possible  you  really  don't  like  him?"  she  ex- 
claimed, in  wide-eyed  surprise.  "  Why,  you  are  the  first 
person  I  ever  knew  who  disliked  the  Count." 

I  smiled  bitterly.  "  Then  I  must  be  a  person  of  63^- 
ceptioually  bad  taste," 


JHflfcA ' 


TIIK,   HTOIJY   OV   AN    KNTIIlJrtlAHT. 


li:l!| 


"  Yes,  really  yuu  imist  be,"  hIu-  rt'iilicd,  (,'mvcly.  "  I 
don't  at  all  undi'r.staud  it.  He  likt's  ymi,  ami  Ih  so  iiieo 
to  you.  1  hopo  you  will  not  Iw  tliaa^Mwablo  to  him, 
I'Vlix  V  " 

"No,  my  darling,  for  your  Hwcift  Hiiko  1  will  bo  very 
politu  and  amial)li!  when  1  am  obliged    o  meet  him." 

»  ObliHt'd  !  then  you  will  not  meet  iiim  voluntarily  ?" 

<'  No,  my  <li'ar,  1  will  not." 

"That  sliowa  that  you  seriously  dislike  liim  >  and, 
Felix,  you  eau  really  have;  no  good  ciaibe.  It  annoys  me 
greatly;  and  papa  will  bo  so  mueh  displeased  if  he 
knows  it.  He  will  think  it  another  proof  of  the  i)ecul- 
iarity  of  your  disposition.  Dear  ni<-  !  how  diHieult  every- 
thing has  suddenly  beeonie.  How  am  1  to  manage  all 
these  di.seordant  elements  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Dorethoa,"  I  said,  as  gently  as  I  eould,  "  it 
seems  that  I  am  the  only  diseonUmt  element  among  you. 
Before   1  came,  there   was    perfect   union,   was    there 

not  ?  " 

"We  were  all  very  happy,"  she  replied,  w.itU  some 
hesitation.  "Oh,  Felix,  why  will  you  be  so  unreason- 
able, so  prejudiced  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  unreasonable.  T.  am  only  unfortunate  in 
my  ta.'ites.  I  can't  like  Count  von  Hardenburg  nor  the 
lady  your  father  has  chosen  for  his  wife;  therefore  I 
must  not  come  in  contact  with  them,  ludess  it  is  abso- 
lutely necessary,  for  fear  my  impetuous  nature  may 
assert  itself,  and  I  may  betray  my  true  feelings.  You 
must  not  blame  me,  my  darling,  but  I  have  already 
offended  your  father,  and  I  am  very  uncomfortabU)  in 
the  midst  of  this  falseh(X)d  and  intrigue." 

"  Oh,  Felix !  you  sho*.-k  me ;  I  beg  you  will  not  use 
such  harsh  terms  5  no  one  Uere  deserves  them.    You 


•  -^    '■■■   xinmtummmmmmmm 


UftlAST. 

ili«'(l,  (^nvvi'ly,  "  I 
you,  iinil  is  so  iiino 
iigrtrablo   to   liiiii, 

iko  I  will  be  very 
to  iiH'i't  him." 
lim  voluiitiirily  ?" 

ilisliko  him ;  and, 
ibu.  It  annoys  nm 
displeast'il  if  he 
iroof  of  tli«  pecul- 
liow  ditticult  L'very- 
lu  I  tu  manage  all 

tly  as  1  could,  "  it 
icnu'iit  among  you. 
union,   was    there 

eplii'd,   with  some 
ju  bo  so  unreason- 

inly  unfortunate  in 
ardenburg  nor  the 
wife ;  therefore  I 
,  unless  it  is  abso- 
tuous  nature  may 
true  feelings.  You 
ut  1  have  already 
y  uncomfortable  in 
ue." 

J  you  will  not  use 
serves  tUem.    You 


TIIK  8TKAN0K  8TOIIV   0|C   A    l'H!TtUtK. 


non 


prui  isi'd  when  yoji  returned  that  you  would  not  (inarrel 
WBtlv  iiapa  again." 

"And  yet  I  have  managed  to,"  I  said,  iiunddy. 

"  Hut  how  will  it  end  V  If  yo\i  coiitiune  to  exaHperato 
him,  there  will  be  an  oiien  rupture,  and  I  shall  iiave  to 
sutler  one  way  or  another";  and  again  the  blue  eyes 
were  full  of  tears. 

"  My  love,"  I  said,  very  earnestly,  drawing  her  dose 
to  nui  while  I  spoke,  "  it  is  beeanse  I  wish  to  avoid 
any  unpleasant  results  for  you  that  I  am  going  away 
to-morrow." 

"What,  again!  I  thought  you  had  come  to  stay 
always  !  I  thought  we  were  not  to  be  parted  any  more  ! 
I  don't  understand  !  It  is  all  very  strange  ! "  and  she 
turued  her  troubled  face  away,  to  hide  the  liot  tears  that 
would  come  in  spite  of  every  effort  to  control  them. 

"  My  Dorothea,  in  a  few  weeks  I  shall  have  the  right 
to  take  you  with  mo  wherevei-  I  go;  until  then,  I  must 
leave  you.  I  can't  remain  here.  I  must  go  to  Mark 
land  Place,  to  see  if  my  nest  is  ready  for  my  bird.  It 
is  years  since  I  was  there,  and  I  would  rather  trust  to 
my  own  taste  than  to  a  London  decorator.  I  want  to 
make  our  home  beautiful.  Is  not  that  a  sufficient  ex- 
cuse for  you  ?  Ik'side  1  have  some  business  to  attend  to 
in  London,  and  some  pictures  to  retouch  for  the  spring 
exhibition.  You  will  be  in  London  as  soon  as  these 
country  visits  are  over.  Let  me  see,  you  go  first  to 
Hraxton,  and  then  to  somewhere  else.  Oli,  my  dear, 
these  English  customs  don't  suit  me  ;  one's  life  is  re- 
duced to  fragments  by  visiting  and  visits.  There  can  be 
but  little  of  earnest  purpose  in  such  a  life.'' 

"  It  is  very  pleasant,  Felix,  a,ll  the  same.  If  you  were 
only  used  to  it,  you  would  like  it.     It  is  one  way  of 


1. 


iiiiiiiiifi''»«iiii»ri 


810 


THE  STORY  OP  AN  ENTHUSIAST. 


being  happy;  and  why  not  be  happy  in  that  way,  as 
well  as  another." 

«  But  you  remember  what  Carlyle  says  :  '  There  is  in 
man  a  higher,  than  love  of  happiness.  He  can  do  with- 
out happiness,  and  instead  thereof  find  blessedness.'  " 

«  Ah,  that  is  very  beautiful,  if  one  looked  at  life  in 
that  serious  way.  But  who  ever  does  ?  Among  all  the 
people  I  know,  you  and  Count  von  Hardenburg  are  the 
only  ones  who  take  a  lofty  view  of  existence ;  and  it 
makes  me  feel  very  frivolous  and  worldly  when  I  think 
it  all  over.  But  what  can  I  do  ?  I  can't  strike  out  for 
myself.  Why,  even  the  Count,  who  is  always  reading 
Jean  Paul,  and  Novalis,  and  talking  of  Goethe  and 
the  higher  life,  enjoys  society  and  fashionable  amuse- 
ments quite  as  much  as  I  do.  Yet  I  will  confess  to 
you,  Felix,  that  at  times  I  get  tired  of  it,  and  long  for 
something  different,  vaguely  and  dimly ;  but  it  is  like 
groping  in  the  dark." 

"  My  precious  one,  the  light  will  come  by  and  by.  But 
I  implore  you  not  to  seek  for  it  through  the  teaching  of 
Count  von  Hardenburg.      Avoid  him,  distrust  him,  as 

I  do." 

She  looked  at  me  for  a  moment  with  a  mingled  ex- 
pression of  surprise  and  sorrow ;  then  her  face  hardened 
preceptibly,  and  she  said,  coldly,  "  Felix,  I  can't  suspect 
you  of  so  weak  and  ignoble  a  feeling  as  that  of  jealousy, 
or  I  might  be  able  to  account  for  your  strange  dislike  of 
my  best,  my  dearest  friend.  Dislike  him  if  you  will, 
but  I  beg  of  you  not  to  seek  to  injure  him  in  my  estimar 
tion.  I  can  assure  you  it  is  useless.  I  esteem  him  as 
much  as  I  admire  him,  and  I  can't  allow  you  to  be  so 
unjust  to  one  of  the  best  of  men.  Pray  do  not  hurt 
me  by  repeating  this,  or  I  shall  find  it  hard  to  forgive 
you." 


USIA8T. 

f  in  that  way,  as 

says  :  '  There  is  in 
He  can  do  with- 
i  blessedness.'  " 

looked  at  life  in 
;  ?  Among  all  the 
[ardenbuvg  are  the 

existence ;  and  it 
fldly  when  I  think 
jan't  strike  out  for 

is  always  reading 
ig  of  Goethe  and 
fashionable  amuse- 
,  I  will  confess  to 
of  it,  and  long  for 
mly;  but  it  is  like 

me  by  and  by.  But 
ugh  the  teaching  of 
m,  distrust  him,  as 

with  a  mingled  ex- 
n  her  face  hardened 
"elix,  I  can't  suspect 
;  as  that  of  jealousy, 
iir  strange  dislike  of 
,ke  him  if  you  will, 
■e  him  in  my  estimar 
is.  I  esteem  him  as 
't  allow  you  to  be  so 
Pray  do  not  hurt 
fid  it  hard  to  forgive 


THE  STRANGE  STORY  OP  A  nCTURE. 


311 


"  Dorothea,  my  darling,  my  love,  you  can  never  know 
how  I  suffer  fov  you.  We  will  speak  no  more  of  him. 
I  knoiv  it  is  worse  tlian  useless.  You  are  blind,  and  will 
not  let  me  help  you  to  see.  I  can  only  wait  patiently 
until  I  can  remove  you  from  his  influence,  then  I  trust 
you  will  understand  me  better  than  to  think  I  am  actu- 
ated by  an  unworthy  motive.  Love  me  and  trust  me, 
dearest,  and  you  will  live  to  acknowledge  tliat  my  advice 
is  good,  even  if  you  do  not  follow  it." 

"  I  shall  never  distrust  Count  von  Hardenburg,  if  that 
is  what  you  mean,"  she  replied,  firmly  and  coldly,  as  she 
turned  to  leave  me.  "  But  hush,"  and  she  made  amotion 
that  some  one  was  approaching. 

We  had  been  sitting  in  an  embrasure  of  a  window, 
and  so  could  not  command  a  view  of  the  corridor.  And 
there,  a  few  paces  from  us,  stood  the  Count,  examining, 
with  a  critical  eye,  a  portrait  by  Reynolds. 

"  Have  you  noticed  this  ?  "  he  asked,  in  his  courteous, 
gentle  voice.  "I  think  it  one  of  Sir  Joshua's  best 
examples.  It  is  full  of  vigor,  and  more  plastic  than 
most  of  his  works." 

What  could  I  say  ?  I  was  sure  that  he  had  overheard 
our  conversation,  and  I  hated  hypocrisy  so  intensely  that 
I  could  scarcely  control  myself  sufficiently  to  answer 
his  question.  But  Dorethea's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  me 
imploringly,  and  I  forced  myself  to  make  a  polite  and 
formal  reply.  Then,  with  a  blundering  excuse  that  I 
had  letters  to  write,  I  v/nlked  away,  almost  suffocated 
with  indignation  and  contempt. 

As  I  turned  into  the  soxith  corridor  I  glanced  back. 
They  were  standing  before  the  Reynolds.  Dorethea's 
sweet  eyes  Avere  lifted  to  the  picture,  and  his  were  bent 
upon  her  with  a  look  of  deep  tenderness  and  admiration 
combined. 


i 


J^2  THE  STORY  OF  AN  ENTHUSIAST. 

Good  Heavens  !  how  dare  he  look  at  her  in  tl:at  way  ? 
I  felt  like  storming  back  upon  him  and  crushing  him 
with  a  blow ;  but  at  that  moment  Lord  Hardmoor  a})- 
peared,  with  Mrs.  Coleman  Leeds  on  his  arm,  who  was 
looking  in  the  face  of  her  companion,  her  eyes  full  of 
seductive  light,  while  he  bent  upon  her  the  doting  smiles 
that  only  an  old  man  in  love  can  lavish  upon  the  object 
of  his  adoration. 

This  unfortunate  encounter  overflowed  the  vials  of 
my  wrath,  and,  with  a  freezing  bow,  and  a  muttered  im- 
precation, I  hurried  out  of  the  house  into  the  dense 
chilling  mist  that  enveloped  every  object  in  a  ghastly 
clinging  vapor. 

IX. 

It  was  early  in  May,  about  the  beginning  of  the  Lon- 
don season.  The  Koyal  Academy  exhibition  was  open, 
and  my  pictures,  strange  to  say,  —  because  they  were  my 
best,  —  attracted  but  little  notice.  Some  secret  influence 
was  working  against  me.  I  was  sure  of  it;  I  felt  it  in 
the  air.  Three  years  before  I  had  been  received  by 
society  with  marked  attention;  now  I  found  myself 
quite  ignored  ;  the  fashionable  world  had  forgotten  me, 
as  well  as  my  work. 

"  It  does  not  matter,"  said  Dorethea,  with  charming 
indifference.  "  We  do  not  care  in  the  least  about  it. 
We  have  had  our  day,  and  must  give  place  to  some  new 
idol.  Soon  we  shall  be  entirely  separated  from  this 
'madding  crowd,'  far  from  this  weary  tumult,  in  our 
quiet  home;  settled,  sedate  country  gentry,  coming 
up  to  London  now  and  then  for  a  glimpse  of  life,  and 
then  returning  to  our  moorland  eyrie,  quite  contented 
with  our  peaceful  lot." 


1US1A8T. 

,t  her  in  tl:at  way  ? 

and  crushing  him 
jord  Hardmoor  aj)- 

his  arm,  wlio  was 
11,  her  eyes  full  of 
5r  the  doting  smiles 
ih  upon  the  object 

owed  the  vials  of 
and  a  muttered  ira- 
jse  into  the  dense 
bject  in  a  ghastly 


;inning  of  the  Lon- 
:hibition  was  open, 
cause  they  were  my 
)me  secret  influence 
I  of  it;  I  felt  it  in 

been  received  by 
v  I  found  myself 

had  forgotten  me, 

lea,  with  charming 
the  least  about  it. 
place  to  some  new 
jparated  from  this 
iry  tumult,  in  our 
ry  gentry,  coming 
jlimpse  of  life,  and 
ie,  quite  contented 


THE  STUANGE  STORY   OF  A   I'lOTUKE. 


313 


Mrs.  Coleman  Leeds,  as  the  affianced  of  Lord  Hard- 
moor, was  more  the  fashion  than  ever.  Count  von 
Hardenburg  revolved  around  her  at  a  discreet  distance, 
shedding  lustre  upon  her,  as  well  as  borrowing  it  from 
her  anticipated  promotion. 

I  saw  but  little  of  them,  as  our  relations  were  some- 
what strained,  and  I  was  only  in  London  for  a  few 
days  now  and  then.  Other  interests  engaged  my  atten- 
tion ;  for,  much  to  my  gratification  as  well  as  surprise, 
I  was  charmed  with  my  new  home ;  my  long-neglected 
estate ;  my  stretch  of  moorland,  with  here  and  there  a 
clump  of  fine  trees  that  spread  their  broad  arms  over  a 
modest  cottage  and  a  fertile  bit  of  soil,  cultivated  by 
a  rude  but  honest  tenant ;  my  stables,  to  which  I  had 
added  a  few  fine  horses;  my  lawn;  my  garden;  my 
small  park,  well  stocked  with  game ;  and,  more  beau- 
tiful than  all  else,  the  gray  old  manor-house,  where  my 
darling's  blue  eyes  would  soon  bring  light,  her  voice 
music,  her  love  bliss  unutterable. 

A  few  months  before  I  could  not  have  believed  that  I 
would  so  soon  become  interested  in  the  dry  details  of 
setting  my  house  in  order,  —  that  I  could  so  thoroughly 
identify  mysei*  with  the  home  of  my  ancestors  as  to 
feel  that  it  was  a  part  of  myself,  something  to  be  loved 
and  cared  for  sacredly,  to  be  guarded  and  protected 
from  injury  and  sacrilege.  At  times  I  felt  a  great  ten- 
derness for  the  place.  There  my  father's  boyhood  was 
passed,  and  his  father  was  born  there.  For  generations 
it  had  been  the  home  of  the  Marklands.  For  the  first 
time  in  my  life,  my  English  blood  asserted  itself,  and  I, 
the  only  remaining  one,  the  last  of  my  name,  felt  that  I 
hitherto  had  been  an  exile,  a  pilgrim,  and  a  stranger 
upon  the  face  of  the  earth.    What  delicious  reveries  I 


■  mWktvvM']  laktfftn  ihtitai-w 


314 


THE  STORY  OF  AN  ENTHUSIAST. 


indulged  in  !  What  glowing  mental  pictures  t  printed, 
sitting  in  the  old  stone  porch,  which  was  draped  and 
festooned  with  the  verdure  of  years !  Looking  out  on 
the  sunlit  lawn,  I  could  fancy  the  pretty  figure  of  Doro- 
thea flitting  about  among  the  flowers.  I  could  see  her 
sweet  eyes  light  up  with  pleasure  at  the  wild  but  beauti- 
ful expanse  spread  before  her,  the  distiint  blue  hills, 
seeming  to  touch  the  silvery  sky,  the  great  banks  of 
white  clouds  sailing  away  from  earthly  ken  into  the 
beyond,  grand,  solemn,  still. 

How  pure  and  honest  nature  would  seem  to  her  after 
the  frivolity  of  London  life ;  and  how  well  her  gentle 
soul  would  accord  with  the  sweet  sincerity  of  such  an 
existence.     Why  had  I  had  so  many  misgivings  ?     Why 
had  I  looked  with  fear  and  dissatisfaction  at  my  isolation 
from  the  world?     Away   from   Rome  there  could  be 
nothing  better  than  this.     Although  it  lacked  an  at- 
mosphere of   art,  it  had  its  compensations.     Here  was 
nature,  pure  and  simple;  and  art  was  but  her  hand- 
maiden.   At  times  I  felt  my  soul  expand  into  aspira- 
tions after  greater  excellence  than  I  had  yet  reached. 
"  I  can  paint  better  here  than  I  have  ever  painted,"  I  said 
to  myself.     "I  can   see  clearer;  my  mental  vision  is 
broadened,   intensified,  strengthened.     I  shall  do  some 
noble  work  yet."    And  I  was  all  impatience  for  the  day 
when  I  should  find  myself  settled  permanently  in  my 
peaceful  home,  with  Dorethea  for  my  only  companion, 
my  ideal  and  sentimental  horizon  clear  and  unclouded, 
and  my  canvas  spread  out  before  me. 

But  I  have  wandered  away  from  London.  As  I  said 
before,  it  was  early  in  May,  and  I  had  gone  up  to  make 
the  final  arrangements  for  our  marriage,  which  was  to 
take  place  on  the  20th.    On  the  10th,  Dorethea,  with  a 


>iyW^'^  IWW.'MW 


SIA8T. 

3tures  I  printed, 

was  ([r.-xped  and 

Looking  out  on 

y  figure  of  Dore- 

I  could  see  her 

B  wild  but  beauti- 

istiint  blue  lulls, 

e  great  banks  of 

ily  ken  into  the 

seem  to  her  after 
V  well  her  gentle 
cerity  of  such  an 
isgivings  ?  Why 
)n  at  my  isolation 
3  there  could  be 

it  lacked  an  at- 
itions.  Here  was 
IS  but  her  hand- 
:pand  into  aspira- 

had  yet  reached. 
ret  painted,"  I  said 

mental  vision  is 

I  shall  do  some 
ttience  for  the  day 
ermanently  in  my 
T  only  companion, 
ar  and  unclouded, 

ondon.  As  I  said 
L  gone  up  to  make 
age,  which  was  to 
,  Dorethea,  with  a 


THE  STRANGE  STORY  OF  A  PICTURE. 


315 


retinue  of  bridesmaids,  an  elegant  trousseau,  Mrs. 
Coleman  Leeds,  and  several  other  friends,  went  down  to 
Hardnioor  Hall  to  complete  the  preparations  there. 

It  was  my  impression  that  Lord  Hardmoor  had  gone 
down  with  the  ladies  ;  therefore,  I  was  much  surprised 
when,  the  morning  after,  I  met  him  on  Oxford  Street, 
walking  with  (!ount  von  Hardenburg.  They  were  in 
close  conversation,  and  seemed  somewhat  excited  over 
the  subject  they  were  discussing. 

When  his  lordship  saw  me,  he  stopped  abruptly,  and 
said,  with  some  embarrassment,  "  What !  are  you  here  ?  I 
thought  you  returned  to  Markland  Place  last  evening." 

His  words  surprised  me,  for  he  knew  that  I  was  to 
remain  in  London  until  the  eve  of  my  marriage,  when  I 
was  to  go  down  to  Haddingham  by  the  last  train.  I  re- 
minded him  of  the  arrangement  which  he  appeared  to 
have  forgotten,  and  then  said  that  I  had  not  supposed 
that  he  had  remained  in  town. 

"  I  intended  to  go  down  with  the  ladies,"  he  replied, 
"but  found  at  the  last  moment  that  some  business 
would  detain  me  for  a  day  or  two  longer.  However,"  he 
added,  as  we  were  about  to  part,  "  I  think  you  had  better 
go  down  this  evening ;  I  don't  see  any  reason  for  your 
staying  in  London  for  a  week ;  beside,  you  may  be  of 
some  use  to  the  ladies  at  the  Hall." 

Count  von  Hardenburg  made  some  remark  about  the 
crowd,  and  general  discomfort  of  town  at  that  season ; 
to  which  I  replied  that  I  thought  I  should  adhere  to 
my  first  arrangement,  and  remain  until  the  19th. 

And  so  we  parted,  and  each  one  went  on  to  his  own 
destination.  What  a  little  thing  would  have  changed 
the  whole  course  of  my  future !  If  I  had  gone  back  to 
my  hotel,  packed  my  portmanteau,  and  taken  the  down 


li 


316 


THE    STOllY   OF  AN   KNTIIUSIAST. 


1;':  i 


train  to  Haddingham,  I  should  not  now  be  recordifttf  this 
strange  freak  of  destiny. 

When  I  met  Lord  Jiardmoor,  I  was  on  my  way  to  a 
jeweller's  in  liond  Street,  who  was  resetting  some  old 
family  diamonds  into  a  modern  necklace,  for  a  bridal 
gift  to  Dorethea.  1  had  made  the  design  myself,  and 
was  anxious  to  see  it  properly  executed;  therefore  I 
was  in  the  habit  of  dropping  in  often  to  considt  with  the 
workman,  who  was  near  the  end  of  his  skilful  and  ex- 
quisite labor. 

After  examining  and  approving  the  work,  I  walked 
across  St.  James  Square,  and  turned  into  King  Street. 
It  had  become  a  habit  with  me  to  haunt  Christie's 
whenever  I  was  in  London ;  and  1  never  found  myself 
in  the  vicinity  without  feeling  an  irresistible  desire  to 
look  over  his  collection. 

On  that  day  my  old  life  with  its  hopes  and  desires 
was  far  behind  me,  and  my  mind  was  filled  and  absorbed 
with  the  near  future,  that  had  so  much  happiness  stored 
up  for  me.  I  was  about  to  pass  without  entering,  when 
some  mysterious  force  —  call  it  destiny,  call  it  habit,  call 
it  what  you  will—  impelled  me  to  turn  back  and  walk 
with  wide-open  eyes  in  the  broad  sunlight  of  that  May 
morning  straight  to  my  doom. 

At  the  moment,  I  was  in  deep  thought.  Before  me 
was  a  picture  of  Dorethea  in  her  bridal  gown,  that 
exquisite  necklace  clasping  her  white  throat,  a  band  of 
brilliants  binding  her  veil  to  the  dull  gold  of  her  hair. 
Abruptly,  another  face  intruded  itself  beside  that  of  my 
love— a  dark,  tender  face,  with  soft  eyes  and  serenely 
smiling  lips.  I  looked  up,  and  before  me  I  saw  the  head 
with  the  black  berretta.  There,  suddenly  and  unexpect- 
edly, face  to  face  with  my  new  happiness,  this  old  lost 


USIAST. 

V  be  recording  this 

I  on  my  way  to  a 
esetting  some  old 
dace,  for  a  bridal 
esign  myself,  and 
luted ;  thurofore  I 
;o  consult  with  the 
lis  skilful  and  ex- 

le  work,  I  walked 
into  King  Street. 
0  haunt  Christie's 
ever  found  myself 
resistible  desire  to 

hopes  and  desires 
filled  and  absorbed 
;h  happiness  stored 
out  entering,  when 
ly,  call  it  habit,  call 
urn  back  and  walk 
dight  of  that  May 

lought.     Before  me 

bridal  gown,  that 

:e  throat,  a  band  of 

II  gold  of  her  hair, 
f  beside  that  of  my 
;  eyes  and  serenely 
e  me  I  saw  the  head 
ienly  and  unexpect- 
)ine8s,  this  old  lost 


THK  STUANGK   STOItY   OF   A    T'lCTUUE. 


317 


aaa^feaas&r 


happiness  confronted  me,  and  looked  at  mo  reproachfully 
from  its  soinbro  setting. 

For  a  moment  I  was  startled  out  of  my  composure. 
A  man  stood  near,  turniui,'  the  leaves  of  a  catalogue.  Ho 
eyed  me  curiously,  and  lingered  near  me.  I  was  afraid 
of  betraying  my  sectret,  and,  feeling  the;  necessity  of  con- 
trolling myself,  I  merely  glanced  at  the  i)icture,  and 
walked  tpiietly  away  to  another  part  of  the  room,  where 
I  tried  with  all  the  strength  of  my  mind  to  subdue  the 
tumult  th.at  raged  witliin  me.  My  heart  seemed  to  beat 
audibly,  the  hot  blood  rushed  to  my  temples,  burning 
tears  to  my  eyes  ;  wliile,  in  spite  of  every  effort,  I  shook 
like  a  leaf  in  the  wind. 

One  of  the  young  men  employed  in  the  house  was  ar- 
ranging some  pictures.  He  knew  me  well,  and  from 
time  to  time  glanced  at  me  as  if  something  tmcommon 
in  my  appearance  attracted  his  attention.  At  length  he 
came  near,  and  said,  respectfully,  "  Perhaps  you  are  not 
feeling  well,  Mr.  Markland  ?     Let  me  bring  you  a  chair." 

"Thank  you.     It  is  only  a  slight  vertigo." 

I  took  the  offered  chair,  for  I  could  not  stand.  The 
stranger  with  the  catalogue  approached,  and  appeared 
to  be  examining  a  picture  near  me. 

"  How  long  has  this  collection  been  on  exhibition  ?  " 
I  asked  of  the  young  man,  when  I  could  command  my 
voice  so  as  to  speak  calmly.  _ 

"  For  three  days,  sir,  and  it  has  attracted  more  atten- 
tion than  any  lot  we  have  had  this  season." 

"  There  are  some  remarkably  fine  pictures  among  them. 
Is  it  a  private  collection  ?  " 

"  It  is.  It  belonged  to  a  rich  Polish  Jew,  who  was  all 
his  life  searching  for  the  best  in  every  sale.  It  is  said  that 
he  only  bought  at  auction^  never  consulted  any  one,  but 


318 


THE  8T01:Y  of  AN  ENTHUSIAST. 


t  J  ■■ 


(Ippomlod  solely  on  his  own  knowledge  of  art,  and  sel- 
dom made  a  mistake." 

"One  can  see  that  from  this  collection.  It  is  remark- 
ably well  selected.  This  Wonverman  is  a  little  gem,"  I 
said,  while  I  examined  a  small  canvas  before  nic  with 
well  feigned  interest. 

"  Have  yon  noticed  that  head  yonder  by  Mantegna  ? 
It  seems  to  attract  the  attention  of  critics  and  con- 
noisseurs more  than  any  canvas  here.  Lord  Hardmoor 
and  Count  von  Hardenburg  are  much  interested  in  it." 
"Were  they  here  this  morning?"  I  asked,  with  a 
deathly  feeling  at  my  heart. 

"They  were  in  about  an  hour  ago,  sir,  and  examined 
it  very  closely.  I  think  the  Count  intends  bidding  on 
it.  and  I  suppose  he  wants  to  be  sure  that  it  is  an  original. 
There  are  so  many  pictures  sold  in  good  faith  for  orig- 
inals, which  are  only  copies.  But  it's  not  easy  to  deceive 
the  Count.  He  knows  more  about  pictures  than  any  man 
in  London." 

"  Is  there  a  history  with  this  Mantegna  ?  " 
"  None  that  we  know  of.     It  is  simply  marked  on  the 
back,  '  Andrea  Mantegna,  1825.' " 

"Could  any  one  suppose  that  the  date  referred  to 
the  time  that  it  was  ])ainted  ?  " 

"I  should  think  not,"  replied  the  young  man,  with  a 
smile.  "No  one  would  be  guilty  of  such  an  anachro- 
nism. It  may  be  the  year  in  which  it  was  bought  by 
the  last  owner." 

Eighteen  hundred  and  twenty-five,  the  year  of  my 
father's  death.  Ah,  how  vividly  it  all  came  before  me! 
Lord  Hardmoor's  stubborn  stupidity,  and  my  p.tiful 

pleading, 
glancing  at  the  catalogue,  I  saw  that  the  sale  was  ^o 


SIA8T. 
of  art,  and  sel- 

m.     It  is  vemark- 

1  a  little  gem,"  I 

before  1110  with 

r  by  Mantegna? 
critics  and  con- 
Lord  Hardnioor 
interested  in  it." 
I  asked,  with  a 

if,  and  examined 
iitends  bidding  on 
at  it  is  an  original, 
od  faith  for  orig- 
lot  easy  to  deceive 
ires  than  any  man 


THE  8TRANOE  STOUV   OF   A   PICTURE. 


819 


gna 


9" 


ply  marked  on  the 

I  date  referred  to 

young  man,  with  a 
such  an  anachro- 
it  was  bought  by 

,  the  year  of  my 
1  came  before  me! 
y,  and  my  i-itiful 

lat  the  sale  was  tp 


tnke  place  on  the  14th ;  to  be  sold  without  reserve  to 
tlie  liighcst  bidder.  My  heart  gave  a  great  tlirob  of  joy. 
To  the  highest  bidder  —  only  that  one  condition  stood 
between  me  .and  the  treasure  of  my  life ;  and  no  one  else 
knew  of  its  inestimable  value  ;  therefore,  no  one  would 
give  as  much  as  I  Avould.  I  seemed  already  to  have  it 
in  my  iiossession,  when,  suddeidy,  with  a  pang  of  agony, 
I  thought  of  the  engraving  in  Count  von  1  Tardenburg's 
album,  and  of  his  remarks  concerning  it.  Had  he  recog- 
nized the  original  of  the  drawing,  and  did  he  intend  to 
compete  Avith  me  for  its  purchase  ?  If  so.  Lord  Hard- 
moor  had  told  him  the  history  of  the  picture,  and  the 
two  were  combined  together  to  thwart  me  in  my  effort 
to  repospess  it. 

There  Avas  evidently  a  plot  against  me.  Lord  Hard- 
moor  had  seen  the  picture,  knew  that  it  was  exposed  for 
sale ;  in  fact,  had  met  me  a  few  moments  after  examin- 
ing it  critically,  and  had  not  told  me  of  it.  Then  his 
evident  anxiety  to  get  me  out  of  town  as  speedily  as 
possible  —  what  did  that  mean  ?  Why,  it  was  all  as 
clear  as  day  to  me.  He  did  not  wish  me  to  know  that 
the  picture  was  in  London.  He  did  not  wish  me  to  get 
possession  of  it  even  when  I  had  the  opportunity.  All 
this  passed  through  my  mind  ^as  I  went  from  one  picture 
to  another,  apparently  looking  carefully  at  each  one,  but 
really  seeing  nothing  but  that  face  which  I  feared  to 
more  than  glance  at. 

When  I  went  out  the  man  whom  I  first  noticed  stood 
near  it,  still  much  engrossed  with  his  catalogue. 


#1" 


TlIK   STORY   OF    AN    KlITIlUSlAST. 


My  first  imimlsc  whou  T  loft  Christie's  was  to  hunt 
up  Lonl  Hiirdinoor  and  (h)Uiiin(l  an  exphmation  ;  and  also 
to  try  and  discover  what  were  Count  von  Ilardenlmrs  s 
intentions  eonoerning  the  picture.  But  by  the  time  I 
n.ached  my  dub  in  I'all  INIall,  my  plan  did  not  appear 
,.ither  so  feasible  or  so  judicious  as  I  had  thought  it  at 

'It  that  moment,  T  could  not  decide  on  any  course  of 
proceeding.  My  mind  was  a  chaos,  my  brain  a  mad 
whirl  I  was  suddenly  thrown  from  my  e(iuihbruim  — 
out  of  poise,  as  it  were,  and  confronted  with  one  of  the 
,uost  serious  problems  of  my  life,  while  1  had  neither 
strength  nor  clearness  of  perception  to  decide  on  what 
was  best.  In  a  truly  pitiable  mental  condition,  I  threw 
myself  into  a  chair,  in  an  alcove  of  the  reading-room, 
and  tried  to  reduce  the  terrible  confusion  in  my  soul  to 

form  and  order.  ,  t  i     i    i 

A  servant  laid  some  letters  before  me,  and  I  looked 
them  over  abstractedly,  scarcely  underslandmg  then- 
contents,  until  I  came  to  one,  a  foreign-looking  note,  the 
penmanship  of  which  seemed  familiar  to  me.  I  opened 
it  with  nervous  fingers,  and  read  the  following  :  - 

"The  Raphael  you  have  been  seeking  so  long  is  at 
Christie's.  It  will  be  sold  on  the  14th,  to  the  highest 
bidder  ;  accidentally,  I  have  overheard  a  conversation  be- 
tween the  Director  of  the  New  London  Gallery  and  a  Ger- 
man connoisseur.  The  latter  has  recognized  the  hand  o 
the  great  master  in  the  work,  and  he  has  been  authorized 
to  purchase  it  for  the  National  Gallery.  If  you  wish  to 
possess  the  picture,  you  must  be  prepared  to  py  a  large 


li^'i  II I  /tmifim'^ 


■life  HIV 


1  US  I  AST. 


THE   STnANCfE   RTOIlY   OF   A    riCTUKK. 


a'2i 


istie'a  was  to  hunt 
planiition;  and  also 
;  von  Ilardenburg's 
lUit  by  the  time  I 
Ian  did  not  appear 
[  had  tlunight  it  at 

do  on  any  conrac  of 
i,  my  brain  a  mad 
I  my  ('(luiiibrium  — 
ted  with  one  of  the 
vhile  I  had  neither 
to  decide  on  what 
,1  condition,  I  threw 
f  the  reading-room, 
[usion  in  my  soul  to 

re  me,  and  I  looked 
understanding   their 
ign-looking  note,  the 
ar  to  me.     I  opened 
5  following :  — 
eeking  so  long  is  at 
14th,  to  the  highest 
ird  a  conversation  bt  - 
on  Gallery  and  a  Ger- 
icognized  the  hand  of 
i  has  been  authorized 
lery.     H  you  wish  to 
epared  to  pay  a  large 


sum  for  it.  Do  not  go  to  Christie's.  Do  not  Itiil  <'ii  it 
yourst'lf.  A  friend  will  watch  the  picture,  and  you  will 
be  infonnc<l  of  any  u'-w  nu)vemcnts.  If  yon  hear  that 
the  llussian  government  has  an  ap'iit  at  tlie  .sale,  you 
will    understand   that  it   is  a  ruse    to  intimidate   your 

opponent." 

Wlio  eoidd  have  written  this  singular  epistle;  there 
was  neither  name  nor  date,  and  the  writing  was  un- 
known to  me,  in  spite  of  its  somewhat  familiar  character. 

Who  in  London  besides  Lord  Ilardmoor  knew  of  my 
search  for  the  picture  ?  And  what  unknown  friend  had  I 
to  warn  nu^  of  the  plot  against  me  ?  It  was  a  mystery 
that  I  could  not  fathom.  However,  it  was  of  some  ser- 
vice to  me,  as  it  put  me  on  my  guard  ami  gave  me  an 
opportunity  to  i>ni)are  for  the  struggle. 

The  British  government  was  a  formidable  ojipouent. 
But  I  knew  that  (Unrnt  von  Harilenburg  would  be  limited 
in  the  an\ount  to  be  offered  for  a  picture  of  doubtful 
authenticity.  Tiu;  government  had  cavilled  not  long 
before  abo\it  paying  eighteen  thousand  poiuids  for  an 
undoid)ted  Raphael.  Therefore,  I  concluded  that  no 
more  would  be  offered  for  this. 

In  looking  back  at  that  time,  I  think  I  must  have 
been  temporarily  insane,  for  but  one  mad  desire  iilled 
my  soul,  and  that  was  to  gain  possession  of  the  i)icture, 
even  to  the  sacrilice  of  my  last  shilling,  ^ly  love  for 
Dorethea  paled  and  waned  before  that  awful  passion.  I 
ri'mcmbered  Lord  Hardmoor's  words  :  "  1  will  take  her 
away  from  you  even  at  the  altar."  I  knew  he  was 
capjtble  of  doing  it,  and  that  a  sei)aration  between  n>e 
and  the  girl  who  in  a  few  days  was  to  become  my  wife, 
was  inevitable.  The  ruin  and  desolation  of  my  life, 
should  I  persist  in  carrying  out  this  uuul  idea,  came 


w&ssmm'^-^&'^^'-'^'^'^SiSs^m'm^ 


822 


TIIK   HTOUV   OK   AN    ENTHUSIAST. 


^ 


-iviiUy  before  lU'^.  Hut  it  was  as  nothing.  I  felt  hke 
one  on  the  v.-i-e  of  eternal  ruin,  who  nniHt  save  his  soul 
at  tho  aaerilice  of  every  worhlly  interest.  '•  It  n.nst  l)o 
done,  thouK'h  I  give  np  all,"  I  repealed,  over  and  over. 

In  vain  I  tried  to  calm  niyscdf  in  order  to  plan  ont 
thf'  dct-'ils  of  my  battle,  with  my  enemies.  For 
Count  von  IlardenbnrK  T  f.-lt  the  most  intense  hatred. 
Toward  T.ord  llardn.  -or.  who  ha-l  been  the  first  eause  ol 
my  trouble,  I  felt  only  sorrow  and  contempt.  He  was 
Doreahca's  father,  and  1  must  not  give  rein  to  my  an-.-r 
in  thinking  of  him.  He  had  bei-n  inthieneed  by  that 
handsome  demon,  that  treacherous  Gernuin  fiend,  to  do 
me  this  cruel  injury. 

Oh,  how  much   1  needed   a  reasonable,   cool-headed 
friend,  to  whom  I  could  entrust  my  secret,  and  to  whom 
I  could  look  for  advice.     1  thought  of  all  my  ae.p.amt- 
ances  in  London.     Alas!    there  was  none  in  whom   I 
could  confide  in  this  terrible  crisis.     And  if  there  was 
I  was  obliged  to  confess  that  his  counsel  would  be  use- 
less ;  for  I  was  sure  there  was  not  one  sane  man  in  a 
hundred  but  would  advise  me  to  abandon  the  course  I 
was  bent  on   following.     Cool  reason  would  say,  "Do 
not    sacrifice    every    worldly   interest  for  an   idea -a 
sentiment.     Get  possession  of  the  picture  if  you  can  at 
a  fair  price;  if  not,  renounce  it,  and  be  satisfied  that 
you  have  done  right." 

This  sensible  consideration  of  the  matter  angered  me, 
and  I  started  up  impetuously  to  do  something,  when  a 
hand  was  laid  firmly  on  my  shoulder,  and  a  hearty,  frank 
voice  exclaimed,  "What!  have  you  lost  your  sight,  that 
vou  don't  recognize  your  friends  ?  " 

"Mr  Brent!  Is  it  possible!  Where  did  you  coine 
from    so    unexpectedly?"    I    cried,    quite    overjoyed. 


I   II  I  ih  III! 


[I  US  I  AST. 

uthiiig.     I  Mt  like 
>  must  Siive  his  soul 
rest.     '•  It  iniist  bo 
•d,  over  and  ovi-r. 
1  order  to  pliiii  out 
iiy    cntMuioH.      For 
lost  inttfuso  liatrt'd. 
JU  tilt)  lii'Ht  ciiuso  of 
coutt'iuiit.     He  was 
vo  ri'in  to  my  aiii;fr 
iiithu'iiccd  l)y  that 
Geniiau  lioiid,  to  do 

Kinahle,  oool-hcadi'd 
secret,  ;uul  to  whom 
;  of  all  my  aeiiuaint- 
18  none  in  whom  I 
,  And  if  there  was 
ounsel  would  be  use- 
;  one  sane  man  in  a 
abandon  the  course  I 
3on  would  say,  "Do 
est  for  an  idea  — a 
pieture  if  you  can  at 
nd  be  satisfied   that 

e  matter  angered  me, 
o  something,  when  a 
r,  and  a  hearty,  frank 
.  lost  your  sight,  that 

Where  did  you  coine 
id,    quite    overjoyed. 


TIIR  STIiANOK   HTOIIV  OF   A   PH'TIMIE. 


828 


"  Heaven  must  have  sent  you,  for  1  was  just  wishing 
for  a  friend." 

"  Well,  my  dear  boy,  here  he  is ;  now  what  can  he  do 
for  you  ?  " 

"  It's  a  long  story.  Come  in  here  and  sit  down,"  and 
I  drew  him  into  the  aleove.  "  Hut,  first,  are  you  in  a 
hiiiry '.'  Have  you  any  engagements  tor  the  next 
li.uir'.'" 

"  No,  no,  nothing.     I  just  came  to  look  you  up." 

"  Wiiy  are  you  in  JiOiidnn  so  early  in  the  season  ?  " 

"  We  eaine  to  I'aris  with  Luiiia  and  Paul.  You  knew 
they  were  to  be  ma'-ried  this  sjjring." 

"  Certainly  I  ditl ;  but  I've  forgotten  everything  lately 
but  my  own  affairs.  And  so  you  came  with  them?  and 
they  are  suprenu^ly  hajtpy,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Uh,  the  typical  turtle-doves  are  poor  comparisons. 
I  am  tired  of  their  billing  and  cooing;  so  my  wife  and  I 
thought  we  would  leave  them  awhile  with  their  French 
kin  and  run  over  to  England." 

"  And  Kome  —  dear,  delightful  Rome.  Tlie  master  and 
madam,  Camille,  La  Santa,  and  all  ?  " 

"Not  so  fast ;  I  have  only  one  talking  apparatus.  Let 
me  see.     Yes,  all  are  well  and  prosperous." 

"  Kut  about  Camille  and  La  Santa  ?  " 

"  Ah,  I  don't  understand  the  situation  there.  Ang^- 
lique  goes  on  her  serene  way  like  a  star  in  heaven,  while 
He  Jirecourt,  if  I  may  use  another  figure  of  speech,  is 
tossed  like  a  vessel  without  ballast  between  two  contrary 
winds.  I  believe  he  loves  La  Santa,  but  he  spends  most 
of  his  time  with  the  enchanting  Natilika.  Ah !  she  is 
adorable."  >       <  -        " 

"  Natilika  ?  " 

"  Yes ;    the   Russian    princess.     She    has  settled  in 


""',)^*!'siiss;'i 


824  THE  STORY   OF   AN  ENTHUSIAST. 

Rome  since  you  left.  You  never  saw  her  or  you  would 
renuMuber  her  too  well.  She  is  an  enchnntress.  Ms. 
lirent  says  she  is  danyeroudy  fascinating.  I  believe  th. 
dear  little  woman  thinks  she  might  bewitch  even  an  old 

'^^i;!^;:;;d  your  Russian  Circe.     I  will  hear  more 
about   her  some  other  time.      Now  I  must  ta  k  a^^^^^ 
myself.     I  am  fearfully  anxious.     I  ain  m  a  tmtuuns, 
dilemma.     In  fact,  1  am  half  cra.y  with  worry. 
"  Well,  my  dear  fellow,  out  with  it. 
"  I  have  found  the  Raphael ! " 

"The  deuce  you  have!  Is  that  what  troubles  you  ? 
»No,  not  the  finding  it,  but  the  consequences  that 
nuist  result.  Let  me  tell  you  all  about  it,  and  then  ad- 
vise me,  or,  rather,  help  me  to  carry  o.t  my  own  plans; 
;:;  I  am  ifraid  youv  judgment  will  no.  approve  of  niy 
intentions."  Then,  as  briefly  as  possible,  I  told  him 
where  I  had  discovered  the  picture,  and  my  suspicion  of 
Lord  Hardmoor's  treachery,  and  the  Count's  plot  to  gain 

^^:Tt:::^t:nd  it  perfectly,"  exclaimed  M.  Brent. 
"They  wish  to  buy  it  as  a  Mantegna  and  sell  it  to  the 
government  as  a  Raphael.  I'm  willing  to  bet  my  he 
that  it's  a  private  speculation  between  his  Lordship  and 
the  German,  and  they  don't  want  you  to  spoil  it. 

"But  read  this,"  I  said,  laying  the  anonymous  lettei 

^'?Siis "is  evidently  written  by  some  one  who  is  ac- 
quainted with  the  history  of  the  picture,"  he  returned^ 
after  glancing  over  the  contents.  "  And  you  say  no  one 
in  England  ktows  the  story  excepting  Lord  Hardmoor.  ' 
«  Or  some  one  to  whom  his  Lordship  has  repeated  it, 
Von  Hardenburg,  for  example." 


HUSIAST. 


THK  8TIJANGR   STORY  OF   A   PICTUKK. 


32'. 


vv  her  or  you  would 
enchpntress.  Mrs. 
ting.  I  believe  the 
jcwitch  even  an  ohl 

I  will  hear  more 
I  must  talk  about 
:  am  in  a  torturing 
.vitli  worry." 
t." 

hat  troubles  you  ?  " 
e  consequences  that 
l)out  it,  and  then  ad- 
y  ojt  my  own  plans ; 
11  no',  approve  of  my 
possible,  I  told  him 
and  my  suspicion  of 
e  Count's  plot  to  gain 

xclaimed  Mi.  Brent, 
'gna  and  sell  it  to  the 
villing  to  bet  my  life 
■een  his  Lordship  and 
ou  to  spoil  it." 
the  anonymous  letter 

some  one  who  is  ac- 
picture,"  he  returned, 
"  And  you  say  no  one 
ting  Lord  Hardmoor." 
•dship  has  repeated  it, 


"Hut  what  moti/e  could  he  have  for  putting  you  on 
your  guard  ?  " 

"  I  can't  think.  It's  very  mysterious.  It  seems  more 
like  the  work  of  a  friend  than  an  enemy." 

"  Well,  don't  let  us  speculate  about  the  letter.  It's  of 
no  real  importance.  The  thing  to  consider  is  how  to 
get  the  picture,  and  circumvent  Hardmoor  and  the  Ger- 
man. No  doubt  they  will  offer  a  good  price,  but  they 
won't  go  beyond  a  certain  point ;  first,  because  the  pic- 
ture is  not  well  authenticated,  and  secondly,  because 
there  is  danger  of  the  old  story  being  revived.  When  it 
is  known  that  Lord  Hardmoor  once  sold  the  picture  as  a 
Mantegna,  it  will  be  difficult  for  him  to  pronounce  it  a 
Eaphael ;  and  both  ho  and  the  Count  are  clever  enough 
to  foresee  that  it  is  sure  to  come  out.  No  sooner  do 
they  announce  that  another  Raphael  is  discovered  than 
every  critic  and  conivaisseur  in  the  country  will  be  cack- 
ling over  it ;  and  old  Michelet  will  be  one  of  the  first  to 
pounce  upon  them.  The  old  man  never  forgets  a  slight 
put  upon  him,  and  it  is  a  bitter  grievance  that  he  pro- 
nounced upon  this  picture,  and  an  English  ignoramus 
sold  it  as  something  else,  in  defiance  of  his  decision.  All 
these  things  will  work  in  your  favor,  if  there  is  no  other 
object  than  simply  wishing  to  get  possession  of  the  pic- 
ture because  it  is  a  Raphael ;  a  private  grudge  might  do 
more  mischief  than  anything  else.  Has  Von  Harden- 
burg  any  motive  for  wishing  to  injure  you  ?  " 

Like  a  flash,  the  look  he  had  given  Dorethea  that 
day  in  the  corridor  came  before  me.  The  hot  blood 
mounted  to  my  face  and  left  my  heart  still  and  cold ; 
but  I  replied,  calmly,  "He  knows  that  I  hate  him 
cordially." 

"  Well,  there  is  your  danger ;  you  must  look  out  for 


326 


THE  STORY  OF  AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


him.    Now  tell  me  what  you  intend  to  give  for  the 

picture." 

«  All  I  am  worth,  if  it  is  necessary." 

"  Oh,  nonsense !  you  don't  mean  that." 

"  I  do,"  I  replied,  firmly ;  "  I  will  bid  on  it  to  the  full 
value  of  my  estate."  i 

"  And  how  much  is  that  ?  " 

«  About  fifty  thousand  pounds." 

"My  dear  boy,  don't  be  absurd.  Kemember  we  are 
discussing  business.  You  can't  mean  that  you  will  give 
fifty  thousand  pounds  for  a  picture  that  you  may  not  be 
able  to  sell  for  one  thousand." 

«I  mean  that  I  will  give  all  I  have  to  get  the  picture, 
I  reiterated. 

«  And  beggar  yourself  for  three  feet  of  canvas  ?  My 
dear  fellow,  you  are  certainly  crazy,  and  I  must  decline 
having  anything  more  to  say  on  the  subject." 

"Very  well,  then,"  I  returned,  hotly,  "since  you  will 
not  act  the  part  of  a  friend,  I  shall  employ  a  broker  to 
bid  on  it.    I  think  it  best  not  to  appear  in  the  matter 

myself." 

*'  I  am  sorry,  my  dear  Markland,  to  have  to  refuse ; 
but,  really,  I  can't  assist  in  doing  you  such  an  injury.  I 
don't  blame  you  for  wanting  to  get  possession  of  the  pic- 
ture at  a  reasonable  sum,  but  to  impoverish  yourself  —  to 
go  about  it  in  this  mad  way  I  can't,  I  really  can't.  Think 
H  over  calmly  until  to-morrow.  Come,  run  with  us  do\s  n 
to  Margate.  You  had  better  be  out  of  London  until  the 
sale.  Your  only  chance  is  in  not  letting  them  know  that 
you  have  seen  the  picture.  Your  bids  will  take  them  by 
surprise,  and  they  will  back  down  the  sooner." 

"I  must  go  to  my  lawyer's  at  once,  to  arrange  about 
the  money,"  I  said,  rising  hurriedly.  « I  shall  be  obliged 


rsiAST. 
to  give  for  the 

I  on  it  to  the  full 


Leixiember  we  are 
;hat  you  will  give 
it  you  may  not  be 

0  get  the  picture," 

of  canvas  ?  My 
nd  I  must  decline 
bject." 

yr,  "  since  you  will 
mploy  a  broker  to 
pear  in  the  matter 

0  have  to  refuse; 
such  an  injury.  I 
ssession  of  the  pic- 
erish  yourself  —  to 
sally  can't.  Think 
!,  run  with  us  Aovi  n 
f  London  until  the 
ng  them  know  that 
s  will  take  them  by 
J  sooner." 

se,  to  arrange  about 
« I  shall  be  obliged 


THE  STRANGE  STORY  OP  A  PICTURE. 


82T 


to  sell  Markland  Place,  as  I  must  have  the  money  at 
liaiid." 

"  Now,  my  dear  boy,  listen  to  reason  ;  I  am  older  than 
you,  and  of  cooler  blood  ;  I  can  see  the  fearful  results  of 
tiiis  unwise  haste ;  all  your  future  will  be  marred  by  it. 
God  knows,  I  am  your  friend,  and  I  want  most  sincerely 
to  help  you  if  I  can.  I  will  attend  the  sale,  and  bid  on 
the  picture  if  you  will  fix  some  reasonable  limit,  say 
twenty  thousand  pounds,  and  that  is  ten  thousand  more 
than  my  judgment  approves  of.  I  hope,  however,  there 
will  be  no  necessity  of  paying  so  much.  Go  to  your 
man  of  business,  and  tell  him  to  be  at  Christie's  on  the 
morning  of  the  sale,  Avith  twenty  thousand  pounds,  and 
authorize  him  to  pay  wliatever  I  may  offer,  up  to  that 
amount." 

"  And  perhaps  for  a  few  pounds  more,  lose  the  chance 
of  getting  it,"  I  exclaimed,  impatiently.     "No,  no,  I 
an't  risk  losing  it  in  that  way." 

"  There  will  be  no  risk.  The  picture  will  not  reach 
that  figure.  The  Papal  government  offered  a  Raphael 
to  Russia,  only  a  few  months  ago,  for  less ;  I  know  it  to 
be  the  truth.  There  are  several  well  authenticated 
works  of  that  master  to  be  disposed  of  at  this  very 
moment  for  less  than  twenty  thousand  pounds.  Why, 
to  a  poor  fellow  like  me,  the  sum  seems  enormous. 
Think  of  it  in  this  way.  You  have  no  right  to  sacrifice 
your  estate,  to  alienate  it  from  your  chUdren  if  you 
marry :  it  is  not  yours  morally ;  you  hold  it  in  trust 
for  future  generations.  It  would  be  a  wicked  thing  for 
you  to  do ;  a  bitter  wrong  to  the  woman  you  will  marry." 

"  Ah,  you  do  not  know  all,"  I  cried,  passionately.  "  If 
I  buy  the  picture  I  shall  never  marry.  Lord  Hardmoor 
has  told  me  that  he  would  take  his  daughter  from  me, 


^smivxrnissumK^^.i'-y'ttm-r^ 


328  THE  STOBY  OP  AK   ENTHTtRlAST. 

even  at  the  altar.  It  will  separate  us  forever  I  know 
vhTtts  before  n^e,  1  have  counted  the  cost.  Don't  tlnnk 
That  I  am  going  blindly  to  my  ruin.  No,  no,  all  my  1  fe, 
ever  s^ce  I  loved  her,  I  have  looked  forward  to  the 
moment  when  I  should  have  to  choose  between  tins  and 
Wove.    It  is  my  destiny.     It  is  useless  to  struggle 

^^Mr'Vrent  looked  at  me  with  a  puzzled,  pitying  expres- 
sion. '  I  believe  he  thought  me  temporarily  insane,  for 
he  spoke  very  gently  to  me,  nmch  as  one  ^-^^^  \«  ^  ^^^^ 
child.  "  Well,  well,  don't  try  to  struggle  ;  be  reasonable, 
be  moderate,  and  we  will  arrange  it.  Come  with  me  to 
your  lawyer.  Leave  it  to  him  and  me,  and  we  will  see 
.  you  through.  You  shall  have  the  picture  and  some- 
thing left  over  to  live  on.  Come,  let  us  hnish  this  busi- 
ness, and  then  I  shall  carry  you  off  for  a  couple  of  days. 

"Very  well,"  I  said,  "I  will  do  as  you  wish  ;  but  it  i 
lose  the  picture  I  shall  never  forgive  you." 

"You  are  more  likely  never  to  forgive  me  if  you  get 
it."  he  replied,  with  a  laugh,  as  we  went  out. 

I  had  some  difficulty  to  bring  my  lawyer  to  terms. 
■  He  was  old  and  prudent ;  and  he,  and  his  father  before 
him,  had  managed  the  estate  for  nearly  a  hundred  years 
But  my  previous  economy  impressed  him  fayorab  y,  and 
he  saw  that  I  was  dreadfully  in  earnest,  and  that  if  he 
did  not  comply  with  my  request,  I  would  go  to  some  one 
else,  who  might  be  more  obliging  and  less  scrupulous. 

When  the  negotiations  with  the  lawyer  were  com- 
pleted, Mr.  Brent  insisted  that  I  should  meet  him  and 
his  wife  at  the  evening  train  for  Margate.  Caring  httle 
how  I  passed  the  time  until  the  14th,  and  agreeing 
with  my  friend  that  I  had  better  be  out  of  London,  1 
promised  to  accompany  him. 


.im.J>iiri,i.m,»^ii.\',jrv-'.-«a^^^.'r^'l^ 


nsiAST. 

forever.  I  know 
:',ost.  Don't  think 
sfo,  no,  all  my  life, 
hI  forward  to  the 
I  between  this  and 
iseless  to  struggle 

led,  pitying  expres- 
porarily  insane,  for 
)ne  would  to  a  sick 
trie ;  be  reasonable. 

Come  with  me  to 
16,  and  we  will  see 
picture,  and  some- 
us  tinish  this  busi- 
r  a  couple  of  days." 
you  wish  ;  but  if  I 
you." 

give  me  if  you  get 
'ent  out. 

ly  lawyer  to  terms, 
id  his  father  before 
rly  a  hundred  years. 
.  him  favorably,  and 
nest,  and  that  if  he 
pould  go  to  some  one 
d  less  scrupulous. 

lawyer  were  com- 
lould  meet  him  and 
irgate.     Caring  little 

14th,  and  agreeing 
be  out  of  London,  I 


THK   STUAMGE   STOUY    OF   A   I'lCTUUK. 


329 


I  took  a  cab,  drove  to  my  hotel,  wrote  a  luisty  note  to 
Lord  lliirdmoor,  telling  him  tluit  1  should  be  out  of 
town  lor  a  few  days,  another  to  Dorothea,  of  the  same 
purport ;  then,  hastily  packed  a  portmanteau,  swallov/ed  a 
little  dinner  reluctantly,  —  !  had  eaten  nothing  all  day, 
—  and  so  to  the  station,  and  from  there  to  iMurgate,  like 
one  in  a  dark  confused  dream. 

XI. 

We  returned  from  Margate  on  the  morning  of  the 
14th.  Mr.  Brent  went  directly  to  Christie's,  while  I 
betook  myself  to  the  privacy  of  my  lodgings,  where  I 
passed  the  greater  part  of  the  day,  a  prey  to  the  most 
harrowing  anxiety,  tortured  witli  the  most  dreadful  con- 
tradictions. 

At  times  I  thought  of  Dorethea,  down  t  Hardmoor 
Hall,  preparing  for  her  wedding.  Trustful,  happy,  full 
of  bright  anticipations.  What  a  blow  this  would  be  to 
her  young  heart !  How  would  she  bear  the  change  in  my 
prospects,  even  if  her  father  consented  to  our  marriage, 
which  I  dared  not  think  of  with  any  degree  of  hope  ? 
How  coidd  we  live  ?  How  could  I  provide  a  suitable 
home  for  her  ?  Markland  Place  must  be  sold,  if  Mr. 
Brent  succeeded  in  buying  the  picture.  The  home  that 
I  had  prepared  for  my  bride  must  pass  into  the  hands 
of  strangers  before  it  had  been  blessed  by  her  sweet 
presence,  and  I  would  have  nothing  to  otfer  in  its  place 
but  a  paltry  income  from  what  would  remain. 

Then  again  a  gleam  of  hope  pierced  the  clouds  that 
enveloped  me.  K  Dorethea  loved  me  she  would  share 
my  fate,  let  it  be  what  it  would.  With  my  profession,  I 
could  still  be  independent  —  not  rich,   yet  not  poor. 


330 


THE  STORY  OF  AN  ENTHUSIAST. 


And  there  was  Rome,  always  the  refuge  of  the  impecu- 
nious artist.     We  could  live  there  a  delightful  lite  on 
80  little.     I  would  not  despair  ;  the  picture  once  mine  1 
could  settle  other  difficulties  afterward.     But  suppose  1 
did  not  get  it.  Oh,  the  torture  of  knowing  the  prize  so 
near,  and  that  I  might  lose  it  for  a  few  paltry  pounds! 
At  times  I  felt  like  rushing  away  to  King  Street,  to  be 
there  to  bid  on  it  myself  if  it  went  beyond  the  limit 
that  Mr.  Brent  had  decided  upon.    But  that  might  rum 
everything.     No;   I  could  only   wait,  pacing  tlie  floor 
restlessly,  and  longing  for  the  end  of  my  terrible  sus- 

^""it^was  well  on  to  three  o'clock,  when  I  heard  foot- 
steps ascending  the  stairs  and  rapidly  approaching  my 
door  The  supreme  moment  had  come.  I  sank  into  a 
chair  with  only  strength  enough  to  say,  "Come  in,  in 
response  to  the  hurried  knock. 

Mr  Brent  pushed  open  the  door  brusquely,  an^l  en- 
tered. He  was  pale  and  agitated.  "It  is  yours,  he 
said,  grasping  my  hand,  "but^at  what  a  sacrifice!  1 
have  done  you  a  fearful  wrong."  _, 

<'  How  much  ?  "  I  gasped,  shaking  like  a  leaf. 
«  Eighteen  thousand  pounds." 

"Eighteen  thousand  pounds,"  I  repeated,  stupidly; 
'•  are  you  sure  it  is  mine  ?  "  ,      ,    . 

"Sure,  yes.  Good  God,  do  you  understand  what  a 
fortune  you  have  thrown  away  on  it?"  and  he  dropped 
into  a  chair,  and  wiped  his  forehead  furiously.  "  I  have 
been  a  fool  to  be  dragged  into  this.  By  and  by  you  wil 
hate  me  for  it.  But,  my  dear  fellow,  J  did  the  best  I 
could.     There  was  the  closest  competition." 

"You  did  splendidly,  magnificently,"  I  cried.     "You 
have  bought  the  picture,  and  saved  half  my  fortune." 


ii«rfci'?-^  i'  ii  iii^ii  li>,<^tiii'ii'i  1 1  'ffniwillli  il«  I  nifirfi'iliiAi  'iVi'Ai-ii.'i  wiiiii.'r-u'W^'ili'igMi'ni'Hi 


l|llir|M>   iK^iOrtli 


T^ 


U8IA8T. 

re  of  the  impecu- 
delightful  life  on 
cture  once  mine  I 
1.     But  suppose  I 
wing  the  prize  so 
e\v  paltry  pounds ! 
King  Street,  to  be 
;  beyond  the  linnt 
;ut  that  might  ruin 
i,  pacing  the  floor 
of  my  terrible  sus- 

inrhen  I  heard  foot- 
ly  approaching  my 
me.  I  sank  into  a 
say,  "  Come  in,"  in 

brusquely,  and  en- 

"It  is  yours,"  he 

fhat  a  sacrifice  !    I 

;  like  a  leaf, 
repeated,  stupidly, 

understand  what  a 
;?"  and  he  dropped 
L  furiously.     "  I  have 

By  and  by  you  will 
ow,  J  did  the  best  I 
etition." 

itly,"  I  cried.     "  You 
half  my  fortune." 


THE  8TBAN0E  STOICY   Ol<'   A   PICTUKB. 


331 


« I  should  have  washed  my  hands  of  the  whole  affair," 
he  groaned,  "  and  let  some  one  else  ruin  you.  Oh,  I 
shall  never  forgive  myself ! " 

"At  that  moment,  heavy  footsteps  approached  out- 
side. Mr.  Brent  jumped  up  excitedly,  and  flung  the 
door  wide  open.  "Here  is  a  man  with  eighteen  thou- 
sand pounds  worth  of  old  paint  and  canvas,  not  counting 
the  frame,  which  is  worm-eaten  and  shabby.  Set  it 
down,  my  good  fellow,  and  here  is  a  shilling  for  fetching 

it  up." 

Mechanically,  I  drew  a  half-crown  from  my  pocket 
and  added  it  to  the  shilling.  The  man  took  it  grate- 
fully,  gave  us  each  a  puzzled  look,  and  went  quietly 

away. 

He  had  placed  the  picture  on  the  floor  against   the 
wall.     The  soft  eyes  looked  up  at  me  with  that  strange, 
inscrutable    gaze.      The    lips    smiled  sweetly,    but    it 
seemed  as  if  there  was  an  expression  of  gentle  derision 
in  their  delicate  curves.     I  fell  on  my  knees  before  it, 
and   leaned  my  head  on  the  frame;    and  again,  as  in 
my  childhood,   my   tears  rolled  down  the  soft,   olive 
cheek.     "  My  mother !  my  father ! "  I  sobbed.    I  was 
crushed,  broken,  as  weak  as  a  child  sobbing  on  the 
breast  of  its  mother.     I  forgot  that  I  was  twenty-six, 
and  a  man  who  should  have  scorned  such  weakness ; 
and  there  on  my  knees,  with  my  head  against  the  frame, 
I  wept  as  freely  as  I  did  that  night  before  I  left  my  old 
home  in  the  Rue  de  Grenelle.     When  at  last  I  looked 
up,  Mr.  Brent  was  gone,  and  I  was  alone. 

After  my  first  burst  of  emotion  had  subsided,  I  placed 
the  picture  on  a  chair  and  set  myself  sternly  before  it  to 
try  to  solve  the  problem  of  my  future. 

With  those  eyes  fixed  on  me,  I  could  not  regret  what 


THE   STOltY   OF  AN    ENTHUSIAST. 


I  had  done.  But  liow  would  it  be  when  Dorethea  looked 
at  me  sadly  and  reproachfully  ?  Or  worse,  wlien  I  was 
banished  from  her  presence,  to  see  her  no  n-.ore  on  earth. 
Could  I  live  without  her  ?  my  love,  my  bride.  For  the 
sake  of  this  painted  face,  with  its  soft,  derisive  smile, 
perhaps  I  should  lose  a  warm,  living  heart,  a  sweet, 
tender  love,  all  the  joy  and  perfection  of  my  life,  home, 
fortune,  friends.  Who  could  tell  how  great  the  disasters 
that  might  follow  my  one  mad  desire  for  the  possession 
of  this  inanimate  .scrap  of  cloth  and  sombre  color. 

No,  oh,  no !  It  was  divine.  It  glowed  with  immortal 
life.  It  irradiated  all  the  dim  corners  of  my  soul.  It 
filled  me  with  a  strong  desire  for  something  beyond 
the  needs  of  the  heart.  I  seemed  suddenly  to  soar  away 
above  my  sordid  surroundings  into  a  clearer,  purer  ether, 
to  be  uplifted  beyond  myself,  to  see  things  that  I  had 
dimly  dreamed  of.  Oh,  why  cannot  I  too  be  immortal, 
and  live  forever  in  the  great  throbbing  heart  of  human- 
ity !  What  was  earthly  happiness  compared  with  this 
moment  of  inspiration  in  the  presence  of  undying  genius  ? 
It  was  not  too  late  to  strive  for  fame.  I  could  live 
without  the  pale  light  of  earthly  love,  but  I  could  not 
live  without  my  divine  ideals.  For  months  I  had  been 
dreaming  a  fond,  sensual  dream  —  love,  comfort,  domestic 
bliss,  wife,  children.  What  were  tliey  compared  to  Uie 
higher  life,  the  glowing  inspiration  of  genius  ?  I  did  not 
need  friends  or  fortune.  I  covild  rf;nounce  all,  and  live 
apart  from  the  world  in  the  celestial  atmosphere  of  art. 

And  Dorethea?  Dorethea's  smiling  blue  eyes  seemed 
to  look  suddenly  into  mine.  Gently  persistent,  they  took 
the  place  of  the  dark  eyes  of  the  picture.  But  the 
mouth,  the  curved  lips,  with  their  pure,  simple  lines 
and  tender  color,  still  smiled  with  soft  derision. 


■Bljiiiiiiiii'.iifiiriMi  ■filial 


iii«i»iiii>tii 


■■|>»>i>rifiaiii 


[U81AST. 

:n  Dorethea  lookcil 
worst',  wlioii  I  was 
r  no  more  ou  earth, 
iiy  bride.  For  the 
)l't,  derisive  smile, 
ig  heart,  a  sweet, 
u  of  lay  life,  home, 
great  the  disasters 
for  the  possession 
iombre  color, 
wed  with  iiuraortal 
I's  of  my  soul.  It 
something  beyond 
denly  to  soar  away 
clearer,  purer  ether, 
things  that  I  had 
[  too  be  immortal, 
g  heart  of  humau- 
ompared  with  this 
of  undying  genius  ? 
irae.  I  could  live 
re,  but  I  could  not 
nonths  I  had  been 
s,  comfort,  domestic 
jy  compared  to  the 
:  genius  ?  I  did  not 
ounce  all,  and  live 
atmosphere  of  art. 
;  blue  eyes  seemed 
ersistent,  they  took 
picture.  But  the 
pure,  simple  lines 
t  derision. 


THK  STUANCK  STOUY   Ol<'  A   I'lCTUltK. 


333 


With  an  impulse  of  horror  that  I  could  not  account 
for,  I  turned  the  picture  to  the  wall  and  went  out,  lock- 
ing and  double  locking  it  within. 

My  landlady  was  just  entering  as  I  opened  the  street 
door.  "There  is  something  very  valuable  in  my  room," 
I  said.  "  Do  not  allow  any  one  to  go  there  while  I  am 
absent." 

"You  need  not  be  uneasy,  Mr.  Markland.  I  will 
watch  your  apartment  myself.  No  one  can  enter  with- 
out my  knowing  it." 

No  sooner  had  I  left  the  house  than  I  began  to  think 
of  all  sorts  of  accidents  that  might  occur  to  rob  me  of 
my  treasure.  And  I  was  half  inclined  to  return,  but  I 
remembered  that  I  had  a  duty  of  a  ditticult  nature  to 
perform.  I  must  see  Lord  Hardmoor  as  soon  as  possible  ; 
but  I  could  scarcely  hope  to  find  him  in  Berkeley  Square 
before  the  hour  of  dinner,  and  1  knew  him  too  well  to 
attack  him  on  an  empty  stomach.  Therefore,  I  must 
possess  my  soul  in  patience  until  about  nine  in  the  even- 
ing, when  I  hoped  he  would  be  genially  influenced  by  a 
hearty  dinner,  washed  down  with  good  wine. 

Scarcely  knowing  how  to  dispose  of  my  time  until 
then,  I  strolled  toward  the  park,  and  was  just  entering 
the  Victoria  gate  when  I  saw  Mr.  Brent  talking  to  a 
distinguished-looking  man  whom  I  recognized.  He  was 
a  Russian,  and  I  had  met  him  in  Rome  some  three  years 
before. 

As  soon  as  Mr.  Brent  saw  me,  he  left  the  Russian  and 
hastened  eagerly  toward  me.  "  I'm  glad  to  see  that  you 
have  recovered  yourself  sufficiently  to  come  out  and 
walk  off  your  excitement,"  he  said.  "  But  you  came 
near  not  getting  it,  and  now  I  wish  to  Heaven  you  hadn't. 
It  was  a  narrow  chance.    Only  for  Geldowsky  who  has 


-     uBiiwii  in  itfiiy 


8;u 


TUB   8TOUY   OV   AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


just  left  ine,  and  who  is  known  as  a  rich  llusiian,  thoy 
would  have  run  it  up  several  thousands  hv^'hor.  There 
was  the  greatest  curiosity  to  find  out  wlioni  1  was  reiu-e- 
seutinsr  CJeldowsky  was  seen  talking  with  mo  during 
the  sale,  and  that  confirmed  the  report,  that  had  already 
circulated,  that  I  was  an  agent  for  the  Russian  govern- 
ment. 80  the  Count  thought  he  might  as  well  back 
down.  I  don't  believe  Lord  Hardmoor  or  the  Gernuin 
suspect  that  you  got  the  picture.     They  inuigine  Russia 

got  it."  ^      , 

"  They  will  soon  kuow,"  I  replied.     "  I  must  see  Lord 

Hardmoor  at  once." 

«  My  dear  boy,  don't  go  there  until  you  are  perfectly 
cool,  or  you  will  get  into  trouble.  He  will  be  furious  at 
not  getting  the  picture,  and  more  furious  still  at  being 
the  cause  of  your  sacrificing  half  your  fortune.  For, 
had  it  not  been  for  them,  I  believe  you  could  have  bought 
it  for  fifty  pounds.  There  was  no  other  competition 
until  it  got  into  the  thousands ;  then  there  were  a  few 
cautious  bids  by  dealers  who  began  to  suspect  there  was 
more  in  the  picture  than  they  thought." 

"It  is  a  cruel  piece  of  treachery,"  I  said,  bitterly. 
«  Lord  Hardmoor  knew  that  it  was  the  strongest  wish  of 
my  life  to  get  possession  of  that  picture  again.  He  has 
wronged  me  beyond  all  reparation,  and  I  can  never  for- 
give him ;  I  wonder  how  he  will  one  day  account  for  the 
trust  reposed  in  him  by  my  father." 

«  Well,  let  us  at  least  give  him  the  benefit  of  the  doubt. 
Von  Hardenburg  may  have  led  him  astray.  Perhaps  he 
does  not  know  that  it  was  the  same  picture." 

«  Yes,  he  kneio  it  perfectly  well,  and  lie  tried  to  pre- 
vent my  knowing  it ;  that  is  enough  to  convince  me  that 
there  was  a  plot  between  hira  and  the  Count.    He  did 


i — wn«»iiiii  iir<i.iHWI|Wiil  m-'i  rumnii 


«M«M 


HITHIAHT. 

rich  lluRsian,  thoy 
iida  li'j,'lier.    There 

whom  I  was  reprc- 
iig  with  mo  during 
)rt,  that  had  already 
the  Russian  govern- 
night  as  well  b.ack 
loor  or  the  Gernuui 
'hey  imagine  Russia 

« I  must  see  Lord 

il  you  are  perfectly 
le  will  be  furious  at 
irious  still  at  being 
your  fortune.  For, 
ou  could  have  bought 

0  other  competition 
in  there  were  a  few 
to  suspect  there  was 
ght." 

3ry,"  I  said,  bitterly, 
bhe  strongest  wish  of 
sture  again.  He  has 
md  I  can  never  for- 
le  day  account  for  the 
> 

?.  benefit  of  the  doubt. 

1  astray.  Perhaps  he 
J  picture." 

and  he  tried  to  pre- 
li  to  convince  me  that 
I  the  Count.     He  did 


TMK   HTIIANOE  8TOKY   OF   A    PK  rUUli. 


335 


not  wish  me  to  got  it,  because  ho  knew  that  I  would 
boldly  proclaim  it  a  Raphael,  and  that  I  could  support 
my  assertion,  aud  h.'  would  therefore  appear  ridiculous 
in  the  estimation  of  every  art  critic  in  Europe." 

We  were  now  walking  rapidly  up  Tall  Mall,  and  I 
was  talking  earnestly,  when  some  one  in  the  crowd 
jostled  me  slightly.  1  looked  up,  and  in  the  gathering 
twilight  I  saw  just  passing  us  Geldowsky  the  Russian, 
and  with  him  a  strangely  familiar  figure  — a  remarkable 
face,  pale  and  haggard,  with  a  restless  gleam  in  the 
sombre  eyes.  "  Ah,  who  was  that  ?  "  I  cried.  "  Could  it 
be  Polonle  ?  "  I  turned  and  hurried  back,  but  already 
they  were  lost  in  the  crowd.  Then  I  knew  who  had 
written  the  anonymous  letter.  It  was  Volon».  Long 
before,  he  had  promised  to  help  me  in  my  search.  He 
had  survived  his  sorrows,  and  he  was  in  London,  and  in 
some  way  had  discovered  the  picture  and  the  plot  against 
me  ;  and  he  was  still  my  friend,  yet  he  had  passed  me 
like  a  phantom  of  the  past,  hurrying  by  in  the  gloom, 
without  a  word  or  sign.  _ 

When  I  reached  Berkeley  Square,  the  butler  informed 
me  that  Lord  Hardmoor  was  still  at  table,  ana  that 
Count  von  Hardenburg  was  dining  with  him. 

"Very  well,  William,  I  will  go  into  the  library,  and  as 
soon  as  his  lordship  comes  out,  tell  him  I  am  there,  and 
wish  to  see  him  alone.  Remember,  alone,"  I  said,  de- 
cidedly, as  the  man  opened  the  door  for  me. 

I  had  only  waited  a  few  moments,  when  Lord  Hard- 
moor came  in  hurriedly;  and,  as  he  closed  the  door,  he 
said,  impatiently:  "Why,  what  are  you  doing  here?  I 
thought  you  were  out  of  town." 

« I  returned  this  morning,"  I  replied,  coldly.  "  I  came 
back  to  attend  to  some  important  business." 


880 


THK   HTOllY    OK    AN    KNTHUSIAST. 


"  Ah!  "  ami  ho  (hiitcd  a  quifk,  iiKiuiiiiig  look  straight 
at  mo.     "  May  I  ask  what  it  was  ?  " 

I  stiulioil  his  face  sihuitly  for  an  instant ;  lio  was  turn- 
ing porcoptibly  i)ah',  and  his  hanils  shook  nervously  as 
lie  tried  to  light  a  oigar.  Th.-n  1  unswor.Hl,  doliboratt'ly  : 
«I  canio  to  buy  back  the  liaphael  which  was  sold  to-day 
at  Christie's." 

"  The  Raphael  —  Christie's  —  to  day.  What  the  devil 
do  you  mean?"  ho  stammered,  while  his  eyes  sought 

the  floor. 

"Lord  llardmoor,"  I  said,  sternly,  "  there  is  no  need 
of  equivocating  or  affecting  ignorance.  You  know  ex- 
actly what  I  mean,  and  you  knew  it  several  days  ago, 
when  you  met  me  on  Oxford  Street  and  advised  mo  to 
go  out  of  town." 

"Knew 'what?  Explain  yourself.  By  Heavens,  I 
don't  want  to  listen  to  any  of  your  riddles."' 

"  You  knew  the  IJaphad  you  sold  for  almost  nothing 
after  my  father's  death  was  at  Christie's  for  sale.  You 
had  just  left  there  when  I  met  you,  and  you  never  told 

me." 

"  Indeed  !  You  seem  very  well  informed  concerning 
my  movements.  What  in  hell  do  you  mean  by  watching 
me?"  he  cried,  furiously,  while  his  eyes  glared  with 

rage. 

"By  the  merest  chance,  instead  of  following  your  dis- 
interested advice,  I  turned  into  King  Street,  and  — from 
force  of  habit,  1  suppose  —  looked  in  at  Christie's,  when 
the  first  thing  my  eyes  fell  upon  was  that  fatal  picture, 
that  through  you  was  sacrificed  and  lost,  and  which  you 
so  well  know  I  have  devoted  the  best  energy  of  my  life 
to  recover.  Lord  Hardmoor,  you  could  have  made  me 
your  debtor  forever  by  helping  me  to  get  it.     Instead  of 


I  »l    ■  1  "  » 


,^tl^li0lUmir-'<  I  III  ii«-i 


IlKlOTi 


.<*!■ 


VV 


l»i»ln«  i'in» 


11  US  1  AST. 

liiing  look  stmight 

stiint ;  ho  wna  turn- 
shook  iiurvously  us 
iviM'tnl,  (U'lilM'ratt-'ly  : 
ii'li  was  sohl  to-day 

i,y.  What  tho  devil 
ilo  his  oyes  sought 

,  "  there  is  no  need 

ICC.     You  know  ex- 

t  several  days  ago, 

and  advised  me  to 

f.  By  Heavens,  I 
itldles.'' 

L  for  almost  nothing 

;tie's  for  sale.     You 

and  you  never  told 

informed  concerning 
)u  mean  by  watching 
IS  eyes  glared  with 

f  following  your  dis- 
g  Street,  and  —  from 
11  at  Cliristie's,  when 
is  that  fatal  picture, 
.  lost,  and  which  you 
st  energy  of  my  life 
could  have  made  me 
to  get  it.     Instead  of 


'1..K  HTUANQK  liTOUV   OV  A    I'lOTUUli. 


;U{7 


that,  }i>u  and  your  friend  formed  a  plan  to  deprive  me 
of  it,  and  forced  me  to  Hacritice  half  of  my  fortune  in 
order  to  compete  wifli  your  bids;  accidentally  I  have 
discovered  the  plot.  It  is  what  I  would  expect  from 
Count  von  llanlenburg,  but  for  you,  Uie  man  1  thought 
my  friend,  —  you,  my  former  guardian,  and,  still  more, 
tho  father  of  my  promised  wife,  —  to  do  me  such  a 
wrong  is  doubly  cruel." 

I  pausoil  a  moment  expecting  an  answer  —  some  expla- 
nation, some  vindication ;  but  his  hard,  metallic  eyes 
never  changed  their  angry  glare,  anil  his  lips  remained 
iirmly  closed  in  grim,  sarcastic  silence. 

After  looking  at  mo  steadily  for  some  time  with  uhis 
devilish,  stony  stare  that  sent  the  hot  blood  wV'.amg  to 
my  brain,  he  rose  slowly,  and  walked  leif  arely  to  the 
door.  Then,  looking  back,  he  said,  with  an  air  of 
haughty  dismissal :  "  Well  sir,  if  you  have  nothing  more 
to  say,  I  will  ring  for  a  servant  to  show  you  out.  And 
never  presume  to  darken  my  doors  again.  I  do  not 
know  you." 

His  insulting  words  and  manner  maddened  me  ;  a 
hellish  Hame  seethed  through  every  fibre  of  my  body  ;  a 
demon  of  hate  took  possession  of  me,  and,  with  a  cry  of 
rage,  I  sprang  upon  him. 

What  followed  I  do  not  clearly  remember,  but  I  think 
I  felled  him  to  the  ground  with  one  blow.  Then  I  have 
a  vague  recollection  of  Count  von  Hardenburg  taking  me 
l>y  the  arm  and  leading  me  to  the  door,  while  he  said,  in 
his  calm,  even  tones,  "  My  poor  friend,  you  are  insane. 
For  God's  sake,  go  away,  or  there  will  be  a  terrible 
scene.  No  one  must  know  of  this.  Go  away  quickly, 
and  I  will  attend  to  his  lordship." 
Then  the  door  was  closed,  and  I  stood  outside  — out- 


338  THE   STOllY    OF  AN   ENTHUSIAST. 

side  of  love,  hope,  happiness  -  outside,  in  a  hell  not 
altogether  of  my  own  making.      . 

For  the  time  I  must  have  been  insane,  for  I  know  that 
I  acted  like  one  bereft  of  reason.     Confronted  so  sud- 
denly with  the  awful  consequences  of  my  rash  act,  my 
brain  reeled  to  and   fro.     The   ghastly  vapors  of  the 
black  London  night  assumed  fantastic  shapes;  gleams 
of  lurid  light  flashed  before  my  eyes,  and  horrible  souwds 
surged  through  my  ears.     I  shook  my  clenched  hand  at 
the  house,  and  broke  out  into  bitter  words  of  rage  and 
defiance.    I  was  conscious  that  a  number  of  people  were 
gathering  around  me,  and  I  heard  some  one  say  dis- 
tinctly, «  Poor  fellow,  he's  mad !  "  and  a  mocking  voice 
returned,  "  Yes  he's  mad  with  drink." 

Then  some  one  took  me  gently  by  the  arm,  and  led 
me  away  from  the  rude  crowd  into  the  black,  drifting 
vapor,  into  silence  and  darkness.  I  did  not  resist  but 
went  with  my  guide,  I  know  not  whither.  On  and  on, 
through  crowded  thoroughfares,  through  narrow  streets 
and  winding  lanes,  in  and  out,  back  and  forth,  hurriedly 
and  breathlessly,  driven  before  these  black  vapors  like  a 
helpless   soul  through  the  whirling,  ghostly  shades  ot 

hell.  ,      .  .         r 

Never  while  I  live  will  the  ghastly  impression  ot 
that  dreadful  night  fade  from  my  memory.  When  the 
morning  dawned,  I  stood  alone  on  Westminster  bridge 
worn,  exhausted,  drenched  to  the  skin,  haggard  and 
dishevelled,  but  once  more  in  possession  of  my  reason, 
and  conscious  of  my  terrible  position. 

I  was  alone;  but  who  had  drifted  with  me  through 
the  night  and  black  vapor?    Who  had  kept  that  awfn 
vigil  with  me?    What  firm,  gentle  arm  had  supported 
me  through  that  wild,  rushing  whirl  ?    Whose  sad  voice 


?s!eS&!ir'^*''**'y*»*w^'  ■■ 


,1  iiVrnj  1  ■irif|»,ijgll!i\tnrilfr'i'. '  In 


ili'tjiiii'  »rlr(jfaifji>'lrM'«tilli'*''iiiMfii'ir..r>iiii<i»ii'Uilii*'>' 


HUSIAST. 

side,  in  a  hell  not 

xne,  for  I  know  that 
Confronted  so  sud- 
of  my  rash  act,  my 
istly  vapors  of  the 
3tic  shapes;  gleams 
and  horrible  souwds 
ay  clenched  hand  at 
r  words  of  rage  and 
mber  of  people  were 
I  some  one  say  dis- 
md  a  mocking  voice 

)y  the  arm,  and  led 

0  the  black,  drifting 

1  did  not  resist,  but 
whither.  On  and  on, 
rough  narrow  streets 
:  and  forth,  hurriedly 
3e  black  vapors  like  a 
ig)  ghostly  shades  of 

;hastly  impression  of 
memory.  When  the 
1  Westminster  bridge 
le  skin,  haggard  and 
session  of  my  reason, 
on. 

ted  with  me  through 
.  had  kept  that  awful 
le  arm  had  supported 
Lrl  ?    Whose  sad  voice 


THE   STRANGE  STOItY   OF   A   PICTURE. 


339 


bid  me  live  and  not  despair  ?  Whose  divine  tenderness 
cooled  the  fire  of  hate  raging  in  my  soul  ?  That  voice, 
that  face  —  were  they  phantoms  of  the  past  ? 

With  the  first  faint  beam  of  day,  my  guide  had  van- 
ished. He  had  left  me  without  a  word,  a  sign.  But,  in 
spite  of  the  black  shadows  that  surrounded  us,  I  knew 
that  I  had  seen  him  many  a  time  before,  and,  like  a 
gleam  from  Paradise  among  Stygian  gloom,  a  memory 
pierced  the  darkness  of  my  soul.  A  quiet  shade,  a  still, 
green  place ;  a  beautiful  face  bending  down,  a  passion- 
ate love-lit  face  looking  up.  And  this  was  the  end, 
the  night  that  followeth  the  day  — to  rush  with  me 
through  the  dense,  blinding  vapor,  striving  to  save  my 
soul  from  the  consuming  agony  that  he  had  suffered  and 
survived. 

XII. 

When  T  returned  to  my  lodgings,  the  first  object  that 
met  my  sight  was  the  unfortunate  picture  turned  with 
its  fa<'.e  to  the  wall  as  I  had  left  it.  I  passed  it  with  a 
shudder,  and  went  straight  to  my  chamber,  and,  throw- 
ing myself  upon  my  bed,  I  sank  into  a  heavy  slumber. 
When  I  awoke  it  was  high  noon.  For  some  time  I  could 
not  remember  what  had  happened;  only  the  sense  of  an 
awful  calamity  rested  upon  me. 

But  by  degrees  everything  became  clear.  A  letter  lay 
on  my  dressing-table.  It  was  from  Dorethea,  full  of 
tender  endearments,  and  pretty  girlish  fancies,  and  it 
was  written  about  the  time  when  I  had  signed  the  death- 
warrant  to  my  happiness  by  becoming  the  owner  of  the 
pi(!ture.  Poor  child,  how  light  of  heart,  how  lovmg, 
how  trusting !     And  even  now  the  evil  tidings  were  has- 


PHRWSvi'C^!^'-"  - 


!M^|!im-."iJaftMmi'"<M''i*'W' 


840 


THE  STOPvY   OF  AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


tening  toward  her.  There  would  be  no  marriage  at  the 
Hall ;  no  happy  wedding  journey  ;  no  home-coming  to 
Mavklaud  Place. 

A  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling  came  over  me.  I  was 
enraged  at  myself ;  my  own  stubborn  folly,  my  own  in- 
sane determination  wrought  my  ruin,  and  the  ruin  of 
the  gentle  heart  that  loved  me.  1  alone  was  to  blame, 
and  I  richly  deserved  my  fate ;  but  Dorethea,  my  dar- 
ling, how  bitterly  I  had  wronged  her.  Contrite,  broken- 
hearted, melted  with  sorrow,  I  sat  down  and  poured  out 
my  very  soul  in  penitent  pleading.  I  implored  her  to 
pardon  my  rash  act.  I  did  not  accuse  her  father,  I  took 
all  the  burden  of  the  blame  upon  myself.  I  pleaded  by 
my  life-long  love  for  her,  by  the  sorrows  of  my  youth, 
and  my  strong,  impetuous  nature,  that  she  would  listen 
to  me,  and  give  me  one  ray  of  hope  for  the  future.  I 
know  my  letter  was  eloquent  with  feeling.  The  passion 
and  despair  of  ray  soul  filled  evory  line.  I  was  pleading 
for  more  than  life  —  I  was  pleading  for  hoi^e. 

With  outward  calmness,  I  despatched  my  letter, 
dressed,  and  made  a  pretence  of  breakfasting,  and  then 
went  out.  The  first  thing  I  did  was  to  order  a  heavy 
oaken  box,  clamped  with  iron,  and  fastened  with  a  lock 
of  the  most  intricate  workmanship ;  after  which  I  went 
to  my  club,  and  seated  myself  at  a  table,  with  the  morn- 
ing papers  before  me. 

There  was  a  mirror  in  a  cabinet  opposite  me,  and  I 
looked  at  myself  critically  to  see  if  any  signs  of  my 
recent  struggle  were  apparent.  No ;  I  looked  precisely 
the  same  man  who  sat  there  ohe  day  before,  save  a  more 
settled  pallor,  a  firmer  pressure  of  the  lips,  and  a  some- 
what gloomy  eye.  I  congratulated  myself  on  my  com- 
posure, and  felt  a  degree  of  satisfaction  at  my  newly 


jjiuMjmMj'.'fi.'fWT 


IIM  l<^"j«<»*^i>ll!»i^ 


IU8IAST. 

10  marriage  at  the 
lo  home-coming  to 

e  over  me.     I  was 
folly,  my  own  iu- 
n,  and  the  ruin  of 
lone  was  to  blame, 
Dorethea,  my  dar- 
Contrite,  broken- 
3wn  and  poured  out 
I  implored  her  to 
;e  her  father,  I  took 
self.     I  pleaded  by 
■rows  of  my  youth, 
it  she  would  listen 
for  the  future.    I 
seliug.    The  passion 
ue.    I  was  pleading 
for  hope. 

patched  my  letter, 
sakfasting,  and  then 
s  to  order  a  heavy 
isteued  with  a  lock 
after  which  I  went 
able,  with  the  morn- 

,  opposite  me,  and  I 
if  any  signs  of  my 
i ;  I  looked  precisely 

before,  save  a  more 
the  lips,  and  a  some- 

myself  on  my  com- 
iactiou  at  my  newly 


THE   STRANGE  STORY   OF  A   PICTURE. 


3-il 


developed  will.  Yesterday  in  my  ex<  itement  I  felt  and 
acted  like  a  child.  To-day  I  seomtd  centuries  older, 
and  so  tirm  and  strong,  so  resolute  to  hide  my  suffering 
from  every  eye  save  God's.  He  alone  should  sound  the 
depths  of  my  soul.  He  alone  should  know  how  weary 
and  heavy  laden  I  was. 

I  took  up  the  Times,  and  carelessly  glanced  over 
the  columns,  when  ray  eye  fell  upon  the  following 
article :  — 

"  Among  the  pictures  sold  yesterday  at  Christie's  was 
one  catalogued,  '  Head  of  a  young  man,  Andrea  Man- 
tegna,'  which  brought  the  astonishing  price  of  eighteen 
thousand  pounds.  The  bidding  was  confined  mostly  to 
two  parties,  who  evidently  were  under  the  impression 
that  the  picture  was  of  great  value,  and  who,  for  some 
unaccountable  reason,  were  determined  to  possess  it  at 
any  price.  We  have  not  yet  learned  who  the  actual 
purchaser  is,  but  it  is  rumored  that  it  was  sold  to  an 
agent  of  the  Russian  government.  The  other  competitor, 
we  understand,  was  a  young  English  artist,  who  has 
lately  shown  signs  of  mental  aberration,  and  who  is 
laboring  under  the  delusion  that  this  very  ordinary 
picture,  probably  a  copy  of  Mantegna  by  somo  obscure 
artist,  is  a  work  of  the  divine  Raphael." 

How  long  I  sat  there  with  the  journal  before  me,  read- 
ing and  rereading  the  hateful  lines,  I  do  not  know.  I  was 
stunned,  appalled  by  the  malicious  cruelty  of  my  ene- 
mies. "  Signs  of  mental  aberration  "  !  Was  it  possi- 
ble that  any  one  could  be  wicked  enough  to  fabricate 
such  a  cruel  falsehood  ?  What  had  I  done  ?  How  had  1 
acted  ?  Was  there  anything  in  my  conduct  to  support 
such  a  statement  ?  It  is  true  that  the  night  before, 
under  the  most   terrible   provocation,  I   had  forgotten 


342 


THK  STOKY  OF   AN  ENTHUSIAST. 


myself,  and  committed  an  act  that  I  should  regret  as 
long  as  life  lasted;  but  up  to  that  time  I  had  been  as 
calm  and  cool  as  any  human  being  could  be  under  the 
circumstances. 

Men  that  I  knew  well  —  artists,  critics,  litterateurs, 
who  had  always  met  me  cordially  —  came  in  and  wentoiit 
with  a  cool  bow  or  a  pitying  glance.  I  could  not  move. 
I  sat  there  paralyzed  by  this  last  bitter  blow.  At  length 
a  kindly  hand  was  laid  on  my  shoulder. 

"Come,  my  dear  boy,  don't  sit  there  like  one  dazed." 
I  looked  up,  and  Mr.  Brent  was  standing  over  me. 

I  pointed  silently  to  the  article  that  had  worked  such 
mischief. 

"  I  know  it.  I've  read  it.  It's  a  bit  of  beastly  spite. 
But  don't  take  it  too  seriously.  No  one  will  believe 
such  an  absurd  story  as  that.  They  are  furious  because 
you  thwarted  their  plan  and  got  the  picture  away  Itom 
them." 

"  Can  you  remain  here  for  an  hour  ?  "  I  asked,  in  such 
a  strained,  broken  voice  that  I  myself  was  startled  at  its 
strange  sound.  "  I  wish  to  write  a  reply  to  this,"  strik- 
ing the  paper  fiercely,  "  and  you  must  read  it,  for  I  am 
not  sure  that  I  can  trust  to  my  own  judgment  in  the 
matter." 

"  Very  well ;  I  can  wait.  Make  it  hot  and  strong.  Tell 
the  whole  truth,  unless  you  wish  to  spare  the  old  man." 

"  No,  no,  I  will  spare  no  one.  I  have  nothing  to  hope 
or  fear.  They  are  my  bitter  enemies,  and  I  will  sting 
them  as  they  have  stung  me." 

I  went  to  a  table,  and,  seizing  pen  and  paper,  I 
wrote  as  briefly  and  forcibly  as  possible  the  true  story 
of  the  head  with  the  black  berretta,  going  back  to 
the  time  of  its  purchase  by  niy  father,  and  citing  the 


:husiast. 

t  I  should  regret  as 
time  I  had  been  as 
could  be  under  the 

critics,  litterateurs, 
v.vma  in  and  went  o\it 
.  I  could  not  move, 
ter  blow.  At  length 
ler. 

lerc  like  one  dazod." 
ding  over  me. 
liat  had  worked  such 

bit  of  beastly  spite. 
No  one  will  believe 
'  are  furious  because 
le  picture  away  Irora 

r  ?  "  I  asked,  in  such 
If  was  startled  at  its 
reply  to  this,"  strik- 
lust  read  it,  for  I  am 
iwn  judgment  in  the 

hot  and  strong.  Tell 
spare  the  old  man." 
lave  nothing  to  hope 
lies,  and  I  will  sting 

',  pen  and  paper,  I 
)ssible  the  true  story 
etta,  going  back  to 
ther,  and  citing  the 


THE   STRANGE   STORY  OF   A  PICTURE. 


843 


names  of  the  different  experts  who  had  pronounced  it  a 
work  of  llaphael.     And  to  further  prove  its  authenticity, 
I  stated  the  fact  of   the  original  drawing  being  in  the 
I'inacoteca  in  Venice,  and  said  that  a  year  ago  an  engrav- 
ing of  that  drawing  was  in  the  possession  of  Count  von 
Ilardenburg,  the  well  known  German  connoisseur,  who 
would  doubtless  produce  it  if  called  iipon.     1  then  in- 
formed the  public,  tersely  and  clearly,  that  Count  von 
Hardenburg  aiul  Lord  Hardmoor  had  seen  the  picture 
several  times  since  it  had  been  exposed  at  Christie's,  and 
had  compared  it  critically  with  the  engraving  I  referred 
to,  and  that  they  would  doubtless  support  me  in  my 
statement,  which  I  could  prove  by  several  witnesses.     I 
then  added  that  it  Avas  true  that  Lord  Hardmoor,  who 
formerly  was  not  as  well  educated  in  art  at  he  is  now, 
made  the  grave  mistake  of  selling  the  picture  in  Paris, 
in  1825,  as  an  Andrea   Mantegna,  in   defiance  of  the 
opinion  of  the  greatest  expert  in  the  world,  M.  Miclielet 
of  Paris ;  that  the  picture  had  then  been  sacrificed,  and 
that  it  had  been  my  life-long  intention  to  purchase  it  if 
the  opportunity  ever  offered ;  that  I  trusted  the  writer 
of  the  article,  when  the  truth  was  known  to  him,  would 
do  me  the  justice  to  acknowledge  that  the  fact  of  my 
having  paid  eighteen    thousand    pounds  for  a  work   of 
Raphael  was  no  indication  of  mental  aberration. 

To  this  I  signed  my  name  in  full,  and  handed  it  to  Mr. 
Hrent  to  look  over. 

"  Admirable,  excellent,  clear  and  cutting,  with  no  hint 
of  animosity  about  it,"  he  cried,  after  he  read  it.  "My 
dear  fellow,  you  Avill  get  the  best  of  them  in  the  end. 
Hut  cheer  up,  for  Heaven's  sake.  You  look  ill  and 
fagged.  I'm  afraid  you  are  already  regretting  your  bar- 
gain  of  yesterday." 


SSSWBBBWIRW^ 


■MMMMMMHaiiHii 


344 


THK   STOUY   OF  AN    KNTHU81A8T. 


"  I  shall  uever  regret  having  bo\ight  back  the  picture, 
but  I  must  always  regret  the  conseqiieuces.  1  have 
quarrelled  with  Lord  Hardmoor  beyond  any  hope  of 
reconciliation." 

"  I  fancied  as  much.  He  is  a  stubborn  old  brute  and 
hates  to  be  thwarted.  But  perhaps  the  young  lady  is 
more  lenient  than  her  father.  If  she  loves  you,  she 
won't  give  you  up  so  easily." 

"  She  worships  her  father.  She  will  never  forgive  my 
mad  act.  Oh,  Mr.  Brent,  I  did  worse  than  buy  the  pic- 
ture against  his  wishes.  He  insulted  me,  and  —  I  forgot 
myself.  I  — oh,  I  hate  to  say  it  — I  was  insane  for 
the  moment,  and  — I  believe  1  struck  him." 

«  Ah,  that  was  bad !  My  dear  boy,  I'm  sorry  for  that. 
I  wish  you  had  kept  cool.  I  wish  to  Heaven  you  had. 
Dear  me  !    I  uever  should  have  allowed  you  to  go  there 

last  night."     '  , 

"  The  interview  would  have  taken  place  some  time,  and 
it  would  have  happened  all  the  same.  I  could  not  en- 
dure his  brutal  insolence,"  I  answered,  gloomily.  "  1 
tliink  from  the  first  he  meant  to  use  my  buying  the 
picture  as  a  means  to  separate  me  from  his  daughter. 
He  is  completely  under  the  control  of  Count  von  Harden- 

burg  "  — 

"And  Mrs.  Coleman  Leeds,"  interrupted  Mr.  Brent. 
"  I  have  heard  all  about  his  infatuation.  Of  course  he 
don't  know  her  true  history." 

"  Do  you  ?  "  I  asked,  with  but  faint  interest. 

"I  know  more  than  I  wish  I  did,"  he  replied,  with  a 
sad  smile.  "  She  ruined  a  very  dear  friend  of  mine  before 
she  knew  Von  Hardenburg.  Poor  Leeds  picked  her  up 
somewhere,  and  squandered  most  of  his  fortune  on  her, 
and  then  she  gave  him  the  cold  shoulder  for  the  German 
Count." 


..I*  i*njijwh»it»<amiwiii<Nw iiimiiH"'  I 


wfMto#iMP»M>i!jtitiMi,'^iManii^  in 


ITHU81A8T. 

ight  back  the  picture, 
jiiseqiieiices.  1  have 
beyond  any  hope  of 

bubborn  old  brute  and 
ips  the  young  lady  is 
f   slie  loves  you,  she 

will  never  forgive  my 
orse  than  buy  the  pic- 
ted  nie,  and  —  I  forgot 
b  —  I  was  insane  for 
uck  him." 

loy,  I'm  sorry  for  that. 
li  to  Heaven  you  had. 
lowed  you  to  go  there 

n  place  some  time,  and 
same.  I  could  not  en- 
jwered,  gloomily.  "  1 
bo  use  my  buying  the 
ne  from  his  daughter. 
I  of  Count  von  Harden- 

nterrupted  Mr.  Brent, 
buation.     Of  course  he 

faint  interest, 
lid,"  he  replied,  with  a 
ar  friend  of  mine  before 
)r  Leeds  picked  her  up 
of  his  fortune  on  her, 
iioulder  for  the  German 


THE   STUANnK   STOUY   OP   A    I'ICTUUB. 


846 


"  What !  Was  not  he  her  husband  ?  " 
"  I  don't  like  to  say  anything  against  a  woman,  but  I 
believe  there  was  a  hitch  somewhere  —  no  marriage  cer- 
tificate or  something  of  the  kind.  However,  he  is  dead, 
and  the  noble  fellow  left  her  the  remnant  of  his  fortune, 
with  his  forgiveness,  although  he  hadn't  seen  her  for 
years.  By  Jove  !  It  puzzles  me  how  in  the  deuce  such 
women  work  their  way  into  the  best  society." 

"  Poor  Dorethea,  poor  motherless  girl  —  a  dove  among 
these  vultures,"  I  said,  despairingly. 

"  If  she  is  the  right  kind  of  a  dove,  she  will  fly  to  you 
in  spite  of  all.  Look  at  it  in  that  way,  and  take  heart. 
Come,  now,  address  your  paper  and  post  it.  And  then 
I  want  you  to  arrange  your  affairs,  take  your  Raphael, 
and  come  with  us  to  Paris.  We  will  get  old  Michelet  to 
bombard  them  across  the  channel." 

"  I  can't  leave  London  for  a  few  days,"  I  said,  .decidedly. 
« I  must  wait  for  a  letter  from  Haddinghara,  and  I  don't 
dare  expect  one  before  to-movrow  evening.  Poor  girl, 
what  a  trial  for  her !  How  can  she  decide  for  me  against 
her  father  ?  It  is  impossible  —  she  will  never  see  me 
again  — and  in  four  days  from  this,  she  would  have  been 
my  wife.    Good  God !   What  a  cruel  wrong  I  have  done 

her ! "  , 

"Yes,  but  it's  done,  wrong  or  right.  We  wont 
discuss  that  now,  and  you  must  have  the  courage  of  your 
opinions.  I  don't  blame  you  for  being  cut  up.  That's 
only  natural,  but  regretting  it  won't  help  it.  You  must 
bear  it  like  a  man,  and  action  is  the  best  thing.  Let  us 
go  around  to  your  lodgings  and  take  a  look  at  the  picture. 
I  didn't  dare  to  study  it  at  Christie's.  Now  I  know 
where  I  saw  it,  and  I  was  right  about  its  being  in  Eng- 
land.   Geldowsky  told  me  it  was  in  old  Boehm's  coUeo- 


;\W  TllK  8TOKY   OF  AN   ENTllUaiAST. 

ti.,n,  and  the  old  Vole  bought  one  of  my  first  pictures,  in 
ct  gave,  ,ne  a  sond-off,  and  I  went  cmt  to    us  place  to 
sec  it  hung,  and  of  course  I  saw  the  llaphael  there.    I 
rail  cleat  to  me  now.     loan  even  remember  where  it 
was  placed  in  his  gallery."  ^^ 

<<  I  wish  you  could  have  recalled  it  a  year  ago,    i  said, 

'*^<^Yes.  I  wish  to  Heaven  I  could  have.  You  might 
have  bought  it  quietly  from  the  old  Jew,  and  B^ved  yoiir- 
self  all  this  trouble.  But  don't  let's  think  of  that  now^ 
We  can't  interfere  with  the  decrees  of  fa  e.  Instead  of 
regretting,  let  us  try  and  arrange  matters  for  the  present 
Jd  get  away  from  this  noisy,  foggy  Babylon  as  soon  as 
possfble.  You  must  have  the  picture  properly  packed, 
and  YOU  might  as  well  attend  to  that  now. 

"/have  already  ordered  a  box.  It  will  be  sent  this 
evening.  How  strange,"  I  said,  bitterly,  "that,  now  I 
have  the  picture,  I  can't  look  at  it." 

«My  poor  friend,  it  has  cost  you  a  great  deal  beside 

money     But  you  will  get  over  that  feeling  by  and  by, 

Td  you  will  value  it  just  in  proportion  to  what  youhave 

suffered  in  order  to  get  it."  ,„i.va, 

"Perhaps  so,"  I  said,  doubtfully,  "but I  would  rather 

"1/;:i' tekTst  as  you  like.  Then  you  must  go 
down  to'llichniond  with  us.  I  told  my  wife  tobe  ready 
at  four.     Don't  say  no,  for  you  must  go. 

And  I  went,  not'  caring  how  I  passed  the  time  until 
the  next  day,  when  I  should  know  my  fate  beyond  a 

^"  wrote  my  first  agonized  petition  to  Dorethea  on  the 
morning  of  the  15th -on  the  16th  no  answer  came 
On  the  17th  I  penned  another  heart-breakmg  prayer  for 


-  .-il^^BBWUBW*^^**^^  ■" 


"f-T, 


lUaiAST. 

ny  first  pictures,  in 
out  to  his  place  to 
llapliael  tlieve.  It 
remember  where  it 

,  a  year  ago,"  I  said, 

have.  You  might 
rew,  and  saved  your- 

think  of  that  now. 
of  fate.  Instead  of 
itters  for  the  present, 

Babylon  as  soon  as 
ire  properly  packed, 
t  now." 

It  will  be  sent  this 
itterly,  "that,  now  I 

I  a  great  deal  beside 
b  feeling  by  and  by, 
:tion  to  what  you  have 

,  «  but  I  would  rather 


TllK   STUANOE   STOUY   OK   A    I'ICTUUK. 


347 


(,iio  word  of  forgiveness,  which  was  returned  to  me,  un- 
opened, on  the  18th.  On  the  20th,  the  day  that  should 
have  dawned  upon  my  happy  marriage,  I  was  crossing 
the  channel  with  tlie  lU-ents. 

Among  my  baggage  was  a  flat  oak  box,  bound  heavily 
with  iron  and  securely  locked.  The  porters  and  pas- 
sengers eyed  it  with  curiosity,  but  I  could  not  look  at 
it  without  a  shudder. 


Then  you  must  go 
d  my  wife  to  be  ready 

ist  go." 

passed  the  time  until 

ow  my  fate  beyond  a 

on  to  Dorethea  on  the 
L6th  no  answer  came, 
irt-breaking  prayer  for 


I 


iiiminmji'i 


■Ml 


PART  VI. 
NATILIKA. 


ijiittiiiMii»MtMifci>Miniii»ilriii«  mm 


-.■■rtsWHSBME^-'. 


TART  VI. 

NATILIKA. 

T. 

RoMK.  Again  T  am  in  my  old  apartment  in  the 
Tiinata  di  Monti.  Fortunately  I  fotnid  it  unoccupied, 
and  I  engaged  it  at  oiico,  for  tliere  is  no  otlier  place 
where  I  should  so  much  like  to  live.  I  have  been  happy 
liere,  and  there  are  only  pleasant  memories  connected 
with  it,  and  as  the  memory  is  all  of  happiness  I  now 
have,  or  am  ever  like  to  have,  I  live  on  it,  and  it  keejjs 
me  from  madness  and  death. 

Can  it  be  possible  that  only  two  years  have  passed 
since  I  left  Rome,  with  youth  and  hope  in  my  heart,  and 
love  shining  on  me  like  a  rosy  dawn  that  promised  a 
glorious  noonday  ?  It  is  only  two  years,  and  I  am  here 
again,  or  rather  what  there  is  of  me,  for  I  am  not  what  I 
then  was. 

The  padrona  did  not  know  me,  and  when  I  told  her 
who  I  was  she  gave  a  little  cry,  and  said :  "  Oh,  signore, 
you  must  have  been  very  ill ;  your  beautiful  hair  is 
almost  white.     Dio  miof  that  England  has  ruined  you." 

Yes,  that  England  has  ruined  me.  It  is  there  that  I 
have  suffered  the  keenest  sorrow  of  my  life,  the  fiercest 
struggles,  the  most  cruel  defeats.  England,  I  should 
curse  you,  if  my  father's  blood  did  not  flow  in  my  veins, 
if  your  sun  did  not  shine  on  Dorethea. 

Tlie  exclamation  of  the  padrona  di  casa  shows  that  I 

8B1 


•iMUliiMM 


— -^ 


352  THE  STORY  OP   AN   EKTHtTSlAST. 

ain  changed  ;  and  she  could  see  only  a  small  r.att  of  the 
Xu  The  long,  severe  illness  which  P-f  f  f  ™ 
after  I  reached  Paris  with  the  Brents  worked  fearful 
havoc  with  my  outward  man.  When  I  recovered  from 
Tl  was  feeble,  bent,  shrunk,  and  old.  I  looked  hke  the 
ptched  cindei-  of  a  human  being,  completely  consumed 

^SS^^tt^ni:;  the  Brents' faithful  .friendsh^ 
and  constant  care,  I  never  could  have  -^v^ved  that 
awful  crisis.  I  gave  myself,  crushed,  helpless,  hopelesB 
tnto  their  hands,  and  for  weeks  I  knew  nothing  suffe  ed 
nothing,  desired  nothing.  The  fever  burned  until  it 
consum  d  youth  and  strength,  and  then  it  went  out  and 
left  me  incinerated  as  it  were,  the  lifeless  white  ashes  of 

""  Unhappily   for  me  there   is  the  closest  connection 
between  my^nental  and  physical  organization ;  one  can- 
tt  suffer  without  destroying  the  other.     I  have  know, 
men  Camille  for  one,  who  could  endure  mental  torture 
Thout  its  leaving  an  outward  trace      The  flesh  d^  no 
consume,  the  hair  did  not  whiten,  the  «y«  ^^^^  noUose 
its  brilliancy.    But  for  me  to  have  a  «-^  J^^/^f  "^ 
also  to  have  a  sick  body.     To  have  a  blighted,  aged 
heart  means  also  to  have  a  whitened  head  a  dull  eye  a 
palsied   hand.     Therefore   the   physical  change  in  me 
must  necessarily  be  greater  than  in  many  others. 

While  I  was  thus  lying  under  my  consuming  fares, 
Mr  Brent -God  bless  him !- was  fighting  my  enemies 
with  the  aid  of  M.  Michelet.  The  little  connoisseur  is 
old  and  feeble,  but  he  still  wields  a  c-^«j!« /f "'  J^ 
sooner  was  the  Raphael  placed  on  exhibition  m  Pans 
than  the  battle  began.  The  first  thing  .^/ J^^ 
article  in  the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes,  written  by  M. 


>wtnwri^jij;r.  ..4;'Wl^f'i»ff.iiW>^r^BMFW'J'- 


■*j^Hi«'i^Wjy  iffwiiiqufyy  -tn'ifm 


HtTSlAST. 

a  small  tart  of  the 
hich  prostrated  me 
Jilts  worked  fearful 
;n  I  recovered  from 
1.  I  looked  like  the 
ompletely  consumed 

'  faithful  friendship 
have  survived  that 
id,  helpless,  hopeless, 
lew  nothing,  suffered 
3ver  burned  until  it 
then  it  went  out,  and 
ifeless  white  ashes  of 

Le  closest  connection 
)rganization ;  one  can- 
jther.     I  have  known 
3ndure  mental  torture 
tce.     The  flesh  did  not 
,  the  eye  did  not  lose 
ive  a  sick  soul  means 
liave  a  blighted,  aged 
ned  head,  a  dull  eye,  a 
liysical  change  in  me 
n  many  others. 
r  my  consuming  fires, 
as  fighting  my  enemies 
he  little  connoisseur  is 
Ids  a  caustic  pen.    No 
on  exhibition  in  Paris 
irst  thing  was  a  long 
Mondes,  written  by  M. 


NATILIKA. 


353 


Michelet  in  his  most  scorching,  scathing  style,  in  which 
the  whole  history  of  the  "  head  with  the  black  berretta  " 
was  ckarly  and  truthfully  given,  and  no  one  was  spared. 
Lord  H-.rdnioor's   art  pretensions  were  ruthlessly  dis- 
sected.    Count  von  Hardenburg  was  mercilessly  cut  up, 
and  the  whole  plot  to  deprive  me  of  the  picture  at  the 
sale,  and  the   subsequent   cruel   article  in   the    Times, 
which  was  traced   directly  to  Count  von  Hardenburg, 
were  all  exposed  in  the  plainest  and  most  indisputable 
manner.     Scarcely  had  this  paper  been  copied  in  the 
leading    English     journals    when     another     appeared, 
written  by  M.  Geldowsky,  the  Russian,  who  confirmed 
M.  Michelet's  statements  in  every  particular  from  his 
own  observation  and  knov,»!»j<*ge.     Then  Lord  Hanlmoor 
wrote,   and   Count   vovx   Harlenburg  wrote,   and    their 
friend,:   wrote,   until   every   journal   and   periodical   in 
England  and  on  the  •  aitinent  took  up  the  discussion. 
Engravings  of  the  picture  and  engravings  of  the  drawing 
in  Venice  were  published  side  by  side,  for  U.  Michelet 
spared  neither  trouble  nor  expense  to  defend  the  posi- 
tion he  hud  taken,  and  to  prove  that  he  is  the  first 
connoisseur  in  Europe,  and  was  never  known  to  make  a 
mistake ;  and  all  that  was  done  only  served  to  make 
Lord  Hardmoor  more  ridiculous,  and  to  place  Count  von 
Hardenburg  in  anything  but  a  favorable  light,  while  the 
authenticity  of  the  picture  is  proven  beyond  question. 
Til.  Michelet  is  avenged,  and  my  father  is  cleared  of  the 
stigma  of  folly  that  has  rested  upon  him  for  so  many 
years,  and  I  from  the  cruel  charge  of  mental  aberration, 
for  having  paid  eighteen  thousand  pounds  for  it. 

The  first  time  I  saw  M.  Michelet  after  recovering 
from  my  illness,  he  congratulated  me  heartily  on  my 
good  fortune  in  tho  possession  of  such  a  treasure,  and 


■ 


354 


THE  STORY   OF  AN  ENTHUSIAST. 


i 


declared  that  I  got  it  cheap,  that  there  was  no  estimat- 
ing the  value  of  such  an  exquisite  work  of  the  great 
master.     Oh,  my  God  !  had  he  known  what  that  picture 
cost  me,  he  would  have  spared  me  the  cruel  irony  of  his 
felicitations.    Then,  seeing  how  ill  and  broken  I  was,  he 
cried  out,  indignantly :  "  The  English  brute,  to  cause  you 
so  much  trouble !     First  to  try  to  make  you  think  your 
father  an  idiot,  and  after  that  to  force  you  to  pay 
eighteen  thousand  pounds  for  a  picture  he  robbed  you  oi, 
and,  as  if  that  was  not  enough,  to  crown  his  viUany  by 
trying  to  make   the   world  believe    you  insane.     But 
never  mind,  my  friend,  we  have  punished  him  ;  he  is  the 
most  ridiculous  man  in  England,  and  to-day  he  would 
gladly  give  eighteen  thousand  pounds  if  he  had  never 
seen  the  head   with   the   black  berretta.     As  for  the 
German,  he  is  not  worth  talking  about.     If  half  I  hear 
of  him  is  true,  he  will  eventually  punish  his  lordship 

enough  for  us  all." 

"He  has  already  been  punished  enough,"  I  said, 
wearily.  "  I  have  the  picture,  and  its  origin  is  estab- 
lished ;  therefore  I  am  satisfied.  If  you  want  to  do  me 
a  favor,  M.  Michelet,  I  beg  of  you  to  let  the  matter  drop 
here.  Say  what  you  like  of  Count  von  Hardenburg,  but 
spare  ;.ord  Hardmoor.  He  was  my  guardian,  and  once 
was  very  good  to  me,  and  "  -  here  I  could  say  no  more ; 
but  I  mentally  added,  and  he  is  Dorethea's  father. 

"Oh,  there  is  nothing  to  spare,  now.  The  world 
knows  all  the  shameful  history,  and,  as  you  say,  there 
can  never  be  any  more  doubt  about  the  authenticity  of 
the  picture;  and,  my  dear  boy,  if  you  feel  like  parting 
with  it  again,  I  can  sell  it  to-day  for  more  than  you  paid 
for  it.  So,  after  all,  you  can  take  courage  and  console 
yourself  with  the  assurance  that  you  have  got  the  best 


<<S^!!*WWWff3ip9^^ 


HU8IAST. 

ere  was  n<>  estimat- 
work  of  the  great 
11  what  that  picture 
e  cruel  irony  of  his 
vA  broken  I  was,  he 
1  brute,  to  cause  you 
ake  you  think  your 
force  you  to  pay 
ire  he  robbed  you  of, 
lowu  his  villauy  by 
!    you  insane.     But 
ished  him  ;  he  is  the 
,nd  to-day  he  would 
ids  if  he  had  never 
srretta.     As  for  the 
out.    If  half  I  hear 
punish  his  lordship 

3d  enough,"  I  said, 
1  its  origin  is  estab- 
f  you  want  to  do  me 
io  let  the  matter  drop 
von  Hardenburg,  but 
yr  guardianr  and  once 
I  could  say  no  more ; 
rethea's  father, 
•e,   now.     The  world 
nd,  as  you  say,  there 
t  the  authenticity  of 
you  feel  like  parting 
)r  more  than  you  paid 
courage  and  console 
ou  have  got  the  best 


NATILIKA. 


855 


of  them,  and  have  not  lost  anything  either ;  as  I  said,  I 
can  get  more  for  it  than  you  paid." 

"Thank  you.  You  are  very  good  to  take  so  much 
trouble  ;  I  have  not  yet  thought  of  what  I  shall  do  with 
the  picture.  But  if  in  the  future  I  decide  to  part  with 
it,  I  will  let  you  know.  I  would  rather  sell  it  to  France 
than  to  any  other  country." 

"  You  have  only  to  offer  it,  and  I  can  make  the  nego- 
tiations for  you." 

As  I  was  leaving,  the  old  man  shook  my  hand  kindly, 
and  said,  '•  Don't  think  of  anything  now  but  of  regain- 
ing your  health  ;  after  that,  everything  will  adjust  itself 
satisfactorily." 

M.  Michelet's  remark  about  selling  the  picture 
awakened  a  train  of  thought  in  my  mind,  which  gave  me 
a  gleam  of  hope,  the  first  for  months.  If  I  sold  the 
picture  I  could  keep  Markland  Place,  and  establish  my 
financial  affairs  on  their  former  basis.  I  was  obliged  to 
mortgage  my  property  in  order  to  buy  the  picture.  The 
sale  of  it  would  remove  that  obligation,  and  my  position 
would  be  the  same  as  before  the  disaster ;  and  then  in 
time,  when  every  one  had  outlived  the  fury  and  burning 
indignation,  the  bitterness  and  hate,  was  there  not  a 
possibility  of  my  forgiveness  ?  At  least  Dorethea  might 
forgive  me,  if  I  made  what  reparation  I  could. 

It  would  cost  me  nothing  morally  to  give  up  the  pic- 
ture, for,  since  my  first  revulsion  of  feeling  on  the  day 
that  I  look  d  at  it  in  London  and  turned  it  to  the  wall, 
I  had  neve ;  seen  it.  Mr.  Brent  placed  it  in  the  box,  and 
gave  it  into  M.  Michelet's  keeping  when  we  reached 

Paris. 

Without  any  occupation  or  interest  in  life,  the  long 
days  of  summer  passed  wearily,  and  autumn  came.     Mr. 


356 


THE  STORY  OF  AN  ENTHUSIAST. 


Brent  was  making  studies  for  a  historical  pic^ture,  and 
when  they  were  finished  he  began  to  talk  of  returning  to 

°One  day  Mrs.  Brent  laid  a  copy  of  the  Court  Journal 
before  me,  and,  pointing  to  a  paragraph,  said,  "There  is 
something  that  will  interest  you."     It  was  an  account  of 
the  marriage  of    Lord  Hardmoor   and   Mrs.   Coleman 
Leeds,  and  the  ceremony  was  described   with  vulgar 
minuteness.     The  noble  groom;  the   lovely    bride;  the 
magnificent  toilet;  the  diamonds  and  bright  eyes;  the 
best  man.  Count  von  Hardenburg ;   the  pretty  maids, 
first  among  them  the  lovely  daughter  of  the  groom  ;  and 
so  on  for  half  a  column.     Sick  and  dizzy,  I  threw  the 
paper  aside,  and  covered  my  eyes  as  though  I  could  shut 
out  the  hateful  spectacle. 

I  thought  of  Lady  Hardmoor,  just  two  years  dead, 
and  of  Dorethea's  grief  at  the  time,  and  found  myself 
wondering  how  she  could  assist  at  such  a  heartless  dis- 
play •  how  she  could  tolerate  the  loud,  bold  woman  who 
had  taken  her  gentle  mother's  place;  and  Count  von 
Hardenburg  was  first  in  everything.  Perhaps  he  and 
Dorethea  were  even  then  betrothed.  At  the  thought 
my  head  whirled,  and  I  grew  cold  and  faint. 

A  few  evenings  after,  I  walked  slowly  and  feebly  into 
the  Champs  Elys6es,  and,  taking  a  chair,  I  sat  down  near 
the  Bond  point,  where  I  could  watch  the  crowded  prom- 
enade, and  the  unbroken  line  of  fashionable  equipages. 
I  felt  like  a  tired  old  man,  who  is  no  longer  an  actor, 
but  only  an  observer.     Troops  of  daintily  dressed,  light- 
hearted  children  with  their  coquettish  nurses  passed  by  ; 
young  men  and  maids,  with  the  light  of   love  in  their 
happy  eyes  ;   staid,  comfortable   married  couples,  talk- 
ing and  laughing  with  that  mutual  ease  and  confidence 


i'.Hi'"Wf.».Vy.P"'i 


HUSIAST. 

itorical  picture,  and 
talk  of  returning  to 

:  the  Court  Journal 
iph,  said,  «  There  is 
It  was  an  account  of 

and  Mrs.  Coleman 
scribed  with  vulgar 
e  lovely  bride;  the 
md  blight  eyes;  the 

;  the  pretty  maids, 
iv  of  the  groom  ;  and 
1  dizzy,  I  threw  the 
3  though  I  could  shut 

just  two  years  dead, 
le,  and  found  myself 
such  a  heartless  dis- 
3ud,  bold  woman  who 
lace  ;  and  Count  von 
ing.  Perhaps  he  and 
led.  At  the  thought 
and  faint. 

slowly  and  feebly  into 
I  chair,  I  sat  down  near 
bch  the  crowded  prom- 
fashionablo  equipages. 

is  no  longer  an  actor, 
daintily  dressed,  light- 
ttish  nurses  passed  by  ; 
light  of   love  in  their 

married  couples,  talk- 
lal  ease  and  confidence 


NATILIKA, 


367 


which  so  plainly  shows  the  relation  between  them.  My 
eyes  followed  them  all  dreamily,  without  much  interest 
or  speculation.  Now  and  then  a  bewitching  face  sur- 
rounded by  golden  hair  would  flit  by,  and  I  would 
start  nervously,  look  eagerly  at  it,  and  then  relapse  into 
my  former  indifference. 

A  pair  of  high-stepping  ho''"es  attracted  my  attention 
as  they  approached  at  a  swift  pace,  and  behind  them, 
leaning  back  on  the  cushions  of  an  elegant  landau,  I 
saw  Lord  Hardmoor,  and  by  his  side  his  wife,  —  the  new 
Lady  Hardmoor,  —  lovely,  radiant,  triumphant,  in  her 
dark,  haughty  beauty ;  and  opposite,  with  her  fair  face 
turned  toward  me,  smiling  on  Count  von  Hardenburg,  I 
saw  Dorethea,  and  at  the  same  instant,  swift  as  an  inter- 
secting flash  of  light,  she  raised  her  eyes  and  saw  me. 
With  a  cry  that  I  could  not  have  controlled  to  save  my 
soul  from  perdition,  I  sprang  toward  the  carriage,  while 
she,  smitten,  white,  and  ghastly,  her  blue  eyes  and  lips 
parted,  leaned  forward,  with  one  long,  intense  gaze,  and 
than  sank  back  without  a  word  or  sign.  They  passed 
on  and  left  me  standing  there,  staring  wildly  after  them. 
The  last  thing  I  saw  was  Count  von  Hardenburg's  hand- 
some face  turned  toward  me  with  a  mocking  smile. 
Then  a  sudden  madness  seized  me,  and,  forgetting  every- 
thing but  the  desire  to  see  her  again,  I  dashed  franti- 
cally through  the  crowd,  in  and  out,  among  the  tram- 
pling feet  of  horses,  the  crushing,  grinding  wheels,  the 
crowd  that  sprang  aside  from  my  Avild  flight,  the  cries, 
the  jeers,  the  taunts  ;  I  heard  them  not ;  T  heeded  them 
not ;  on  and  on  I  went,  spurning  every  obstacle  aside. 
But  in  vain;  my  speed  was  no  match  for  the  swift 
horses.  She  was  gone,  and  the  strong  hand  of  a  gen- 
darme seized  me  and  dragged  'ae  roughly  aside,  uaying, 


368 


THE  STORY   OP  AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


brutally,  "  What  devil  is  in  you,  that  you  clash  through 
a  crowd  like  this  ?  I  have  a  great  mind  to  lock  you  up." 

This  brought  ine  to  my  senses,  and,  freeing  myself 
from  the  restraining  hand  of  the  man,  I  muttered  some 
excuse  and  sank  exhausted  on  a  bench  near  me. 

And  there  I  sat  for  hours,  my  head  sunk  on  my 
breast,  my  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy,  outwardly  still  and 
cold ;  but  inwardly  a  scorching  flame  seemed  consum- 
ing me.  At  last,  when  the  night  was  well  spent,  and 
the  noisy  din  of  the  vast  city  was  sinking  into  a 
drowsy  murmur,  I  got  up  and  crept  slowly  and  wearily 
back  to  my  apartment,  where  I  threw  myself  on  my 
bed,  but  not  to  sleep.  Ah,  no !  sleep  and  forgetfulness 
were  banished  from  my  pillow.  I  could  only  remember 
how  near  I  once  had  been  to  happiness,  and  how  far  from 
it  I  now  was.  Again  the  faint  spark  of  hope  that 
glowed  in  my  soul  Avas  extinguished,  and  darkness,  dense 
and  unutterable,  settled  down  upon  me. 

The  next  morning  I  told  the  Brents  that  I  would  go 
with  them  to  Rome,  and  that,  as  tar  as  I  Avas  concerned, 
the  sooner  we  left  the  better.  I  could  not  trust  myself 
so  near  Dorethea.  I  feared  that  at  any  moment  I  might 
commit  some  desperate  act  which  would  ruin  me  utterly. 


li. 

Now  that  I  am  back  in  my  old  apartment,  with  my 
studio  arranged  as  formerly,  and  my  easel  in  my  fa- 
vorite place,  I  wonder  if  I  shall  be  able  to  paint  again  ? 
I  am  afraid  not.  I  seem  to  have  lost  all  power  of  ex- 
pression. My  imagination  is  dull  and  sluggish,  my 
thoughts  slow  and  heavy.  Where  are  those  swift,  bright 
visions  that  used  to  flit  through  my  brain  —  those  glow- 


'HU81AST. 

t  you  dash  through 
nd  to  lock  you  up." 
and,  freeing  myself 
an,  I  muttered  some 
di  near  me. 

head  sunk  on  my 
outwardly  still  and 
ne  seemed  consum- 
was  well  spent,  and 
ivas  sinking  into  a 
t  slowly  and  wearily 
irew  myself  on  my 
3p  and  forgetfulness 
;ould  only  remember 
3ss,  and  how  far  from 
spark  of  hope  that 
,  and  darkness,  dense 
me. 

ents  that  I  would  go 
•  as  I  Avas  concerned, 
)uld  not  trust  myself 
any  moment  I  might 
[)uld  ruin  me  utterly. 


apartment,  with  my 
my  easel  in  my  fa- 
able  to  paint  again  ? 
lost  all  power  of  ex- 
11  and  sluggish,  my 
ire  those  swift,  bright 
r  brain  —  those  glow- 


NATILIKA. 


859 


ing  inspirations,  those  ardent  fancies,  those  celestial 
dreams  ?  Alas  !  they  are  gone,  and  Rome,  even  Rome, 
seems  no  longer  the  same. 

My  warm  sunny  wall  has  peeled  off  and  left  gray 
mouldy  patches ;  the  oleander  with  scarlet  blossoms  is 
dead ;  the  trailing  vines  hang  in  withered  tufts,  ragged, 
brown,  forlorn.  Last  winter's  biting  frost  killed  the 
waxen  blooms  of  the  camellias,  and  they  stand  black  and 
shrunk  as  though  they  were  perishing  for  the  loving 
care  of  their  old  friend,  who  sleeps  away  from  sunlight 
and  bloom,  in  a  dark  bed  in  the  Campo  Santa.  My  merry 
little  maid  Tita  has  burst  into  young  womanhood,  and 
married  a  shoemaker  years  older  than  herself,  and  sits 
all  day  in  a  dingy  court  working  staidly  with  her  husband, 
and  the  padrona  goes  with  a  long,  sad  face,  because  she 
misses  the  music  of  the  fresh  young  voice  so  early  grown 
grave  and  still. 

I  sometimes  ask  myself  whether  the  change  is  really 
in  my  surroundings,  or  whether  it  is  not  in  me  ?  The 
world  cannot  suddenly  have  grown  old  and  melancholy. 

Does  not  the  same  yellow  sunset  burn  and  glow 
yonder  behind  the  pines?  Are  there  not  the  same 
enchanting  nights,  when  the  white  moon  hangs  like 
a  crysLai  felobe  over  gardens  and  fountains,  and  the 
nightingale  sings  with  the  same  plaintive  sweetness  ? 
And  does  not  the  lark  mount  to  heaven  in  the  flush  of 
early  morn,  and  the  free  wind  sweep  over  the  face  of 
nature  with  the  same  cool,  caressing  touch  ? 

Ah,  nature  has  not  changed,  but  her  child  has  lost  his 
favorite  toy,  and  so  he  rushes  away  from  his  consoling 
mother,  and  falls  to  weeping  and  complaining.  God 
knows  I  do  not  wish  to  become  morbid  and  melancholy. 
I  would  rather  take  up  the  burden  of  life  and  go  on  to 


860 


THE   8T0UY  OF   AN  KNTHUSIAST. 


the  end  bravely  and  cheerfully,  lint  I  am  like  a  clock 
run  down.  Where  is  the  luiiul  that  will  wind  me  up  and 
set  me  going  again  ?  AVlure  is  the  motive-power  that 
will  give  me  a  new  interest  in  life  ? 

Ah,  I  know !  One  ray  of  hope,  one  faint  gleam,  would 
set  the  machinery  in  motion  again.  I  ask  for  nothing 
for  myself.  1  only  ask  for  the  assurance  that  she  will 
not  separate  herself  from  rao  forever  and  irretrievably  ; 
that  she  will  not  marry  the  man  I  hate  so  bitterly  ; 
for    such   an  assurance   I   could  bless   God    and    live 

again.  . 

I  have  written  to  Walter  and  Edith.  I  have  emptied 
my  very  heart  into  theirs.  I  have  implored  them  to  get 
me  this  promise  from  Dorethea,  that  I  may  be  able  to 
live  and  retain  my  senses ;  for  sometimes  I  feel  that  I 
have  been  so  strained  and  tried  that  my  reason  is  like  a 
tautly  drawn  cord  that  may  snap  at  any  moment. 

1  hv".wihsA  I  always  loved  Dorethea,  but  I  never  knew 
how  I  loved  her  until  I  lost  her ;  and  it  is  another  proof 
of  the  waywardness  of  my  nature  — that  I  desire  most 
■what  I  cannot  have,  as  is  the  case  with  the  picture  ; 
once  I  hungered  and  longed  to  see  it,  as  one  longs  for 
the  face  of  his  love.    I  searched  half  the  world  over  for 
it,  I  sacrificed  all,  all  for  it,  and  now  I  cannot  look  at 
it.    The  box  stands  here  before  me  on  a  heavy  easel, 
chained  securely  to  the  floor,  and  the  key  is  in  my  pocket, 
yet  I  cannot  open  it.     1  wish  to,  but  I  delay.     I  feel 
like  one  who  longs  to  look  at  the  dead  face  of  his  love, 
and  yet  dares  not  for  fear  of  the  change  he  may  see 
there.    I  may  as  well  confess  the  truth  to  myself  —  I  am 
trfraid  to  look   at  it,  because  I  am  sure  if  I  see  that 
strange,  derisive  smile  on  the  lips  again  I  shall  do  it 
Bome  irreparable  injury.     I  have  no  confidence  in  my- 


n 


HUSIAST. 

lit  I  am  like  a  clock 
vill  wind  me  up  and 
e  motive-power  that 

0  faint  gleam,  would 

I  ask  for  nothing 
lurance  that  she  will 
iv  and  irretrievably ; 

1  hate  so  bitterly ; 
less   God    and    live 

ith.     I  have  emptied 
niplored  them  to  get 
lat  I  may  be  able  to 
uetimes  I  feel  that  I 
it  my  reason  is  like  a 
any  moment. 
Ilea,  but  I  never  knew 
id  it  is  another  proof 
—  that  I  desire  most 
se  with  the  picture  ; 
ee  it,  as  one  longs  for 
ilf  the  world  over  for 
now  I  cannot  look  at 
me  on  a  heavy  easel, 
e  key  is  in  my  pocket, 
,  but  I  delay.     I  feel 
dead  face  of  his  love, 
i  change  he  may  see 
L-uth  to  myself  —  I  am 
im  sure  if  I  see  that 
s  again  I  shall  do  it 
no  confidence  in  my- 


NATILIKA. 


361 


self.     I  am  capable  at  any  moment  of  wiping  out,  ruin- 
ing, annihilating  the  treasure  that  has  cost  me  so  much. 

This  morning  Camille  came  to  see  me,  and  I  was  as 
much  struck  with  the  change  in  him  ay  he  was  at  the 
change  in  me.  Is  it  unother  of  my  morbid  fancies  ?  It 
seems  to  mo  that  Camille  looked  as  if  he  had  committed  a 
crime.  His  beautiful  eyes  met  mine  guiltily,  lie  looks 
harassed  aiul  wuiil,  in  some  way  ignoble,  like  one  who  is 
afraid  of  being  detected  in  a  dishonorable  act. 

I  was  glad  to  see  him,  and  for  a  moment  the  old  flame 
flickered  and  glowed  palely.  At  the  sound  of  his  voice 
my  heart  went  out  to  meet  his  with  the  old  warmth  and 
confidence,  but  something  met  me  like  an  iron  wall,  and 
threw  me  back  on  to  myself.  There  was  an  imperceptible 
barrier  between  us  —  imperceptible  to  all  but  the  heart. 
Camille  was  friendly,  but  cold,  formal,  and  reticent, 
seeming  to  avoid  all  confidences. 

What  is  the  trouble?  Has  Ang61ique  disappointed 
him  again  ? 

After  some  desultory  con  ■  arsation,  I  inquired  about 
Madam  Raymond  and  her  daughter. 

"What,  have  you  not  seen  them?"  he  asked,  with 
some  surprise. 

"  No,  not  yet.  I  have  felt  too  ill  to  make  visits.  I 
have  seen  no  one  but  Paul  since  I  arrived." 

"  They  are  well,"  he  said,  with  some  constraint,  "  and 
very  happy  too,  I  suspect.  Perhaps  you  have  not  heard 
that  Madam  Eaymond  has  lately  had  a  snug  little  com- 
petency left  her  by  a  relative  in  England." 

"  No,  I  have  not  heard  it.  I  am  very  glad  for  them. 
It  is  a  great  gain  to  them,  but  a  great  loss  to  art ;  for 
now  I  suppose  La  Santa  will  never  pose  as  a  model." 


~  -•  ■•  -?j»5 


TilK   8TOHY    or    AN    KNTIIUSIAST. 

Camill.  flushed  hotly.     "There  will  ^  ^^ ;;^^ 

for  it,  but  8he  still  considers  ,t  her  duty  to  sit  foi  sacieU 

Bubiects  whenever  she  is  needed."  ,, 

'l  thought  before  this  she  would  ^^^j,  "^^^^  ^  !  "  ;^. 

1  ventured.     "I  thought  you  would   follow  1  aul  s 

^"Foh  say  no  more  of  that,  my  friend,"  exclaimed 
r/  t  hnuatieutly.  "  That  is  all  over.  Augohque 
^efSv  -  o^sh^o  would  have  married  me  Ion,  ago^ 
t!       L.  l.t«  now      We  shall  never  marry.     She  is  a 

'""oh'my  friend,"  I  returned,  sadly  and  earnertly  "is 
^J^X^^  sweet  yonn«  We  slip  ont  0.  your  Me 

£^:;trr;n-t^Hea:^^t^:fS 

rl^  tag  and  patiently.  1  eannot  force  her  agamst 
"'f-f"!  loved  you  when  I  left  Bo-ne.  You 
-rrs"  riS  "-r:id  I  couia  forge. , 

..ivhiseves  "My  own  faulV'l'e  cried,  excitedly.  I 
S  her-I  wor,hip,«d  her,  and  Ae  might  have  con- 
triltd  .ny  destiny,  but  she  preferred  her  rehgron,  her 


'•■i^iip   I  i.-^i  1^  i  iiM,iPBi 


-iy  ■z^.-y  •'** 


U8IAHT. 

11  be  no  necessity 
iv  to  sit  for  sacred 

ave  other  duties," 
follow  rauVs   ex- 

friond,"  exclaimed 
over.  Augelique 
anied  me  long  ago. 
r  marry.  She  is  a 
.11  end  her  days  in 

■  and  earnestly,  "  is 
ip  out  of  your  life  ? 
.  loss?  l*'or  God's 
^ake   warning  from 

ed  Camille,  coldly, 
the  subject.  Ang6- 
i8  refused  decidedly 
:eaven  knows  I  have 
ot  force  her  against 

L I  left  Eome.    You 

tion." 

)  God  I  could  forget ! 

has  changed,  are  you 
» 

face,  and  he  turned 
I  cried,  excitedly.  "  I 
.  she  might  have  con- 
rred  her  religion,  her 


NATIIilKA. 


868 


dreams,  her  ideal  life.  Say  no  more.  I  tell  you  it  ia 
too  late.  I  am  in  bondage  to  the  devil,  and  nothing  cuu 
release  me  now." 

"Oh,  my  poor  friend!  We  have  both  lost  — you  in 
one  way,  1  in  another." 

"  Lost  !  Yes,  that  is  the  word,"  he  exclaimed,  with  a 
harsh,  mocking  l:nigh.  -'Lost  —  lost!  l?ut  don't  think 
I  am  complaining.  1  am  sii<^isfied  if  Angeliiiue  is."' 
Then  he  abrujjtly  fhnnged  the  conversation,  and  soon 
after  went  away,  promising  to  come  again  when  ho  had 
more  leisure. 

Yesterday,  my  dear  master  and  madam  came  to  see  mo. 
They  were  mucli  shocked  to  find  me  .so  ill  and  (changed. 
My  deiiv  motherly  friend  took  me  in  her  arms  and  wept 
over  me,  while  M.  Ingres  wip«'d  away  a  furtive  tear. 
He,  as  well  as  the  rest  of  Europe,  is  heard  the  history 
of  the  head  with  the  black  berretta,  und,  from  the  curious 
looks  he  turned  toward  the  iron-bound  box  on  the  easel, 
I  know  he  was  anxious  to  see  it  I^ut  he  did  not  mention 
it.  Doubtless  he  has  heard  from  Mr.  Brent  of  my  reluc- 
tance to  look  at  it.  I  despise  myself  for  this  weakness, 
but  I  cannot  overcome  it.  Some  time  I  hope  I  shall 
be  stronger,  and  able  to  get  the  better  of  this  singular 
impression. 

After  the  first  sadness  of  our  meeting  passed,  dear 
madam  began  to  talk  in  her  cheerful  way  of  all  that  had 
happened  since  I  left  Rome,  and  the  conversation  natu- 
rally turned  to  Camille  and  Angelique. 

"We  are  disappointed,  greatly  disappointed,  in  Ca- 
mille," she  said,  impatienLly ;  "and  we  think  he  has 
treated  Angdlique  badly." 

"Don't  say  we,  my  love,"  interrupted  the  master; 


M 


rf:i--">i*JJi-.»----..i'a»f,»  rM,.r  ii  1  ir>^,^.m-iy'i.^-sj.^-^^^ij:T  ■,--<i,'-^uMi 


m-i 


TlIK  BTOllY   Of  AN   KNTHUHIAST. 


then,  turning  to  mo  with  a  smile,  «  My  wifo  and  I  can 
never  agree  ahoat  this  matter.  She  insists  that  Camille 
has  treated  An- ■'i.iiu!  badly,  and  1  insist  that  Anguli(ine 
has  treated  huii  mul'v.  Has  not  she  kept  the  i-oor 
fellow  in  a  state  of  harrowing  anxiety  for  two  years, 
with  i'or  impressions,  her  conscience,  and  her  piety,  and 
at  lasl  refused  him  absolutely  ?  " 

"  All,  that  is  your  way  of  putting  it,  my  frioiid,"  re- 
tiuMiod  madam,  severely.  "  You  know  Ang^jlique  wovdd 
have  married  him  in  the  end  if  he  had  not  made  himsolt 
ridiculous  with  the  Princess  NatiUka." 

Again  the  I'lincess  Natilika. 

"  Why,  ra\  har,  you  can't  say  a  man  is  ridiculous  for 
admiring  the  I  rinccss." 

"  Yes,  ccrl  ainly,  when  he  is  loved  by  an  ange    Hke  La 

Santa." 

"That  is  just  it.  I  have  always  said  she  is  too 
angelic.  A  man  wants  a  more  womanly  wonmn.  Now, 
tiie  Princess  just  strikes  the  happy  medium." 

"  Oh,  my  friend,  you  shall  not  i)raise  her  in  my  pres- 
ence," cried  madam,  excitedly.  Then,  turning  to  me,  she 
said,  "My  dear  Felix,  you  don't  know  this  woman  —  this 
Princess  that  all  the  men  are  crazy  about.  She  is  beau- 
tiful, therefore  she  is  perfect  to  them  ;  but  to  the  most 
of  her  own  sex  she  is  odious." 

"  My  dear,  my  love,"  remonstrated  M.  Ingres,  "  don't 
be  too  severe." 

"  You  know  my  opinion  6i  her,  and  I  am  not  alone  in 
thinking  her  an  adventuress  and  an  intrigayite." 

"What!"  I  asked,  "is  slie  not  respectable?  I  have 
heard  the  Brents  speak  of  her,  and  I  thought  she  was 
quite  in  the  fashionable  swim  last  winter." 

"  That  is  true ;  she  was.    She  is  beautiful  and  rich. 


w»e«'' 


«■ 


'«-7'- 


IU81AST. 

My  wif(!  and  I  can 
iusiats  that  Camillo 
siwt  that  Angoli(in<* 
h\m  kopt  the  i>fKir 
ety  for  two  yoai-H, 
,  and  hor  pioty,  and 

it,  my  frippd,"  re- 
)W  An^'t51iqne  wovdd 
id  not  made  liimsoll' 


nan  is  ridiculons  for 

by  an  angc   like  La 

ys  said  shft  is  too 
anly  woumn.  Now, 
uodium." 

■aiHO  her  in  my  pres- 
11,  turning  to  me,  she 
7  this  woman  —  this 
about.  She  is  beau- 
sm  ;  but  to  the  most 

^d  M.  Ingres,  "  don't 

nd  I  am  not  alone  in 

intrigante." 

•espectable  ?     I  have 

d  I  thought  she  was 

winter." 

3  beautiful  and  rich. 


^^^^gjfJT' 


J^K^W 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


I.I 


■  50     '""^ 


t"  -. 


18 


11-25  11.4   IIIIII.6 


^ 


l6 


Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  M580 

(716)872-4503 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Micro-  eproductlons  /  Instltut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historlques 


NATILIKA, 


365 


She  lives  in  a  princely  suite  of  aiiartmeuts  in  the  Cc^iti 
Talace,  and  entertains  niagniiicently  ;  bnt  there  is  some- 
thing wrong  about  her,  something  weird,  uuciUiuy.  She 
meddles  in  politics,  religion,  and  all  the  free  questJcas  of 
the  day ;  and  I  have  heard  it  hinted  that  she  is  always 
surrounded  with  the  new  liberal  party.  There  is  no 
doubt  that  she  is  a  susperfc,  and  probably  she  is  even 
now  under  surveillance.  Caniille  is  with  her  a  great 
deal,  and  their  names  are  already  connected  in  these 
idle  reports  ;  any  one  can  see  that  our  friend  has  changed 
for  the  worse,  and  that  he  is  completely  in  her  power," 

"  Will  he  marry  her  ?  " 

"  Mon  Dieu !  Marry  her ;  why,  she  claims  to  have  an 
old  husband  in  St.  Petersburg  —  Prince  something,  an 
unpronounceable  Russian  name." 

"  But  Czorsky,  a  Russian  painter  here,  says  he  never 
heard  of  him  among  the  nobility,"  interrupted  the  mas- 
ter. "  However,  that  don't  matter.  If  she  has  no  hus- 
band, so  much  the  better  for  our  friend;  there  will  be 
no  one  to  call  him  to  account.  Bnt,  jesting  apart,  X  am 
grieved  for  Camille.  You  remember  when  you  left 
Rome  what  strides  he  was  making  in  his  profession. 
As  soon  as  he  met  that  woman  he  neglected  art,  and  now 
I  doubt  if  he  is  doing  anything." 

"  How  does  he  live  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  God  only  knows,  unless  his  brother  makes  him  an 
allowance." 

"How  fortunate  for  Angelique  that  she  did  not  marry 
him  a  year  ago,"  said  madam. 

"  But  how  unfortunate  for  him,"  returned  the  master. 
"  If  she  had  married  him  she  would  have  influenced  him 
to  lead  a  better  life." 

"Nonsense!"    exclaimed    madam,     with    conviction. 


l.l«^«^W'i"<fJ,'  WP'.IWI  ' 


366 


THE  STOUY   OF  AN    ENTHUSIAST. 


"Angolique  would  have  throvvn  lierself  away  and  done 
him  no  good.  He  woulr'  have  yiekled  to  tliis  .siren  all 
the  same.  I  thank  God  every  day  that  the  sweet  girl 
had  the  strength  and  purity  of  soul  to  cling  to  her  con- 
victions. Camille  will  never  know  what  a  treasure  he 
has  lost." 


III. 

This  evening  I  was  sitting  here  alone,  lost  in  gloomy 
reflections,  when  Madam  liaymond  and  Angelique  came 
to  visit  me.  How  good  of  them  to  seek  me  out  in  my 
solitude !  I  wished  to  see  them,  but  I  cannot  bring 
myself  to  return  to  any  of  my  old  haunts.  Besides,  I 
am  really  very  weak  and  ill,  and  I  lack  the  energy  to 
throw  off  this  lassitude  which  seems  to  be  gaining  on 
me.  Every  day  I  am  reminded  of  my  illness  so  long 
ago  in  England.  But  now  I  have  no  Dorethea  to  win 
me  back  to  health.  > 

I  know  how  very  ill  I  have  been,  and  what  a  wreck 
I  am,  by  the  impression  I  make  on  my  friends  when 
I  first  meet  them.  Angel ique's  sweet  face  grew  pale 
and  sad  while  she  held  my  hand  and  looked  at  me 
silently,  and  Madam  Raymond  tried  to  smile  as  she 
said,  "  Oh,  we  can  never,  never  let  you  go  to  England 
again !  That  black,  foggy  climate  does  not  suit  you. 
You  are  grown  too  thin  and  pale." 

"  Yes,  England  is  fatal  to  me,"  I  said,  drawing  chairs 
near  the  window,  where  we  could  see  the  beautiful 
sunset  while  we  talked.  "I  took  youth  and  health 
and  hope  there,  and  I  have  brought  back  a  miserable 
ruin  of  all." 

"  But  now  you  are  here  again,  we  will  help  you  to 


.-.^W*^'«^att>i4 


iST. 

Avay  and  done 
I  tliis  siren  all 
he  sweet  girl 
ug  to  her  con- 
a  treasure  he 


ist  in  gloomy 
igelique  came 
e  out  in  my 
cannot  bring 
3.  Besides,  I 
;he  energy  to 
be  gaining  on 
llness  so  long 
ethea  to  win 

^hat  a  wreck 
friends  when 
ZQ  grew  pale 
ooked  at  me 
smile  as  she 
)  to  England 
not  suit  you, 

awing  chairs 

he   beautiful 

.  and  health 

a  miserable 

help  you  to 


NATILIKA. 


367 


gain  back  all  you  have  lost,"  returned  Angolique,  her 
eyes  still  fixed  on  me  with  sad  surprise. 

I  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  ]Madam  Raymond 
appears  bright  and  happy.  Her  good  fortune  has  come 
late,  but  it  is  none  the  less  welcome  ;  and  Angelique  —  I 
expected  to  see  some  signs  of  sorrow  and  regret  in  her 
face,  but  there  were  none  ;  as  she  sat  with  the  faint 
reflection  of  the  sunset  upon  her,  she  was  the  incarnation 
of  purity  and  peace.  Looking  at  her  calm,  gentle  face,  I 
felt  abashed  and  humbled  that  I,  a  man,  should  be 
weaker  in  my  sorrow  than  that  frail  girl,  who  must 
feel  the  keenest  pangs  of  disappointment.  Suddenly,  I 
felt  a  new  impulse  of  strength  and  hope.  If  she  had 
conquered,  why  could  not  I  ?  The  sanctuary  of  sorrow 
where  she  had  found  a  refuge  was  a'loo  open  to  me. 

In  the  solemn  twilight  we  talked  long  and  earnestly, 
and  our  conlidences  were  mutual.  Angelique  spoke 
voluntarily  of  Camille.  "  My  feelings  are  not  changed 
toward  him,"  she  said.  "If  you  remember,  long  ago,  I 
told  you  that  I  could  not  marry  him.  I  never  really  felt 
that  I  could,  although,  when  he  recovered  from  that 
dreadful  illness,  I  thought  it  was  my  duty.  I  thought 
he  was  spared  for  me,  and  that  I  could  help  him  better 
if  I  were  with  him  always.  But  I  know  it  was  not 
intended  that  I  should  be  his  wife.  Mama  understands 
it  now,"  with  a  tender  glance  at  her  mother,  "and  she 
is  quite  satisfied." 

"Yes,"  said  Madam  Raymond,  "I  am  glad  to  know 
that  I  shall  always  have  my  child,  and  I  can  see  now 
that  her  marriage  with  M.  de  Brecourt  would  have  been 
a  serious  mistake." 

"  You  must  not  think  because  I  cannot  marry  Camille 
that  I  have  no  interest  in  him.     I  love  him  as  I  always 


1    ■  ■ 


368 


TUli   STOUY   OF  AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


have ;  I  think  of  him  constantly ;  I  want  to  save  his  soul ; 
I  pray  to  God  always  for  his  liappiness  and  eternal 
welfare.  I  think  it  is  a  work  I  have  to  do  on  earth. 
He  is  very  miserable,  although  no  one  knows  it.  Even 
the  Princess  thinks  he  has  the  lightest  heart  among  all 
her  friends." 

"Do  you  know  the  Princess?"  I  asked,  turning  to 
Madam  Raymond. 

"  Oh,  yes.  She  has  been  very  kind  to  us.  We  were 
invited  to  her  receptions,  and  we  went  with  every  one 
else,  and  Ang^lique  has  the  idea  that  the  I'rincess,  aside 
from  all  her  gayety,  is  a  prey  to  profound  melancholy, 
and  my  enthusiastic  child  thinks  that  she  is  another 
wandering  lamb  to  be  restored  to  the  fold.  Entre  nous, 
Ang^lique  has  the  spirit  of  a  missionary.  Slie  wants  to 
make  converts  of  every  one  she  likes." 

"  Mama  does  not  mean  that  I  want  to  convert  them  to 
the  church,"  said  Angelique,  smiling  gravely.  "  I  have 
another  religion.  I  want  to  interest  the  Princess  iu  the 
higher  life.  She  has  great  influence,  she  is  a  power  for 
good  or  evil,  and  there  is  a  close  friendship  between  her 
and  Camille.  If  she"  were  less  worldly  and  more  spirit- 
ual, she  could  lead  Camille  upward  —  she  could  help  me 
to  save  him." 

Madam  Raymond  looked  at  me,  and  then  at  her 
daughter  with  a  sad,  pitying  look,  and  said,  gravely, 
"  My  child,  you  feel  too  deeply  in  this  matter,  far  too 
deeply.  I  think  the  Princess  is  quite  satisfied  with  the 
life  she  is  leading,  and  M.  de  Br^court  also.  There  is 
no  reason  why  you  should  be  unhappy  about  them,  or 
why  you  should  be  accountable  to  their  Creator  for  their 
salvation.  Let  us  leave  them  to  their  own  devices  and 
think  of  some  one  else." 


ilAST. 

io  save  his  soul ; 
!S3  and  eternal 
to  do  on  eaitli. 
nows  it.  Even 
heart  among  all 

iked,  turning  to 

)  us.  We  were 
with  every  one 
:  I'rincess,  aside 
nd  melancholy, 
she  is  another 
d.  Entre  nous, 
She  wants  to 

Jonvert  them  to 
ively.  "  I  have 
Princess  in  the 
is  a  power  for 
ip  between  her 
id  more  spirit- 
could  help  me 

i  then  at  her 
said,  gravely, 
matter,  far  too 
tisfied  with  the 
also.  There  is 
about  them,  or 
ireator  for  their 
m  devices  and 


NATILIKA. 


8ft9 


«0h,  mama,  that  would  be  impossible;  whom   else 
have  I  to  think  of  but  Camille  ?  " 

While  she  spoke  I  could  only  look  at  her  in  astonish- 
ment. What  imselfish  devotion!  What  nobility  and 
purity  of  soul !  Not  one  pang  of  jealousy  toward  the 
woman  who  had  won  her  lover  from  her ;  not  one  word 
of  blame  or  reproach  for  him  ;  only  an  intense  desire  for 
his  happiness  here  and  hereafter.  Surely  she  must  be 
free  from  all  human  weakness. 

Comparing  myself  with  her  I  felt  the  infinite  supe- 
riority of  such  a  soul.  If  she  suffered,  no  one  knew  it. 
She  made  her  sorrow  sublime  by  her  self-renunciation. 

Why  could  I  not  do  the  same  ?  Here  was  my  chance 
of  salvation  —  to  give  up  all,  even  happiness,  and  instead, 
iind  blessedness.  Swift  as  a  flash  these  thoughts  passed 
through  my  mind,  and  when  she  turned  to  me  and  said, 
earnestly,  "  Mr.  Brent  has  told  me  about  the  wonderful 
picture.    Will  you  show  it  to  me  now  ?  "   I  could  not 

refuse. 

Her  earnest  eyes  were  fixed  on  me,  full  of  gentle 
sympathy,  as  ray  trembling  fingers  turned  the  key  and 
threw  back  the  cover.  Why  had  I  so  dreaded  to  look 
at  that  picture  ?  What  a  sick,  morbid  soul  I  must  have 
had,  to  see  anything  in  that  divine  work  to  call  up  evil 
passions.  The  soft  evening  light  brought  out  the  glow- 
ing tints  of  the  oval  face ;  the  eyes  looked  on  me  with 
a  sweet  welcome;  the  exquisite  lips  curved  in  their 
tender,  serene  smile.  It  was  the  old  love,  the  light  of 
youth  and  happiness  that  shone  on  me  from  that  dark 
canvas,  as  we  stood  silently  and  reverently  before  it. 

"It  is  wonderful!"  said  Ang^lique,  at  length.  "I 
can  understand  now  why  you  love  this  picture.  It  does 
not  appeal  to  the  senses  only.    It  appeals  to  the  soul." 


^ 


S 


mesuim 


mtti 


.- 


870 


THE   8TORY   OP   AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


"It  Is  like  a  living  face  looking  at  you  from  the 
frame ;  one  expects  it  to  move  ami  speak,"  cried  Madam 
Raymond.  "  You  will  never  be  alone  while  you  have 
it." 

For  the  first  time  since  I  owned  the  picture,  I  feel  that 
I  have  found  my  old  friend,  that  other  part  of  me  which 
I  have  been  so  long  seeking. 

An  incident  has  just  occurred  which  has  some  interest 
for  me  as  well  as  a  little  mystery.  I  am  walking  daily 
and  regularly,  and  I  find  that  the  exercise  is  beneficial, 
although  I  am  still  weak,  and  creep  about  in  this  invig- 
orating autumn  weatlier  slowly  and  feebly.  I  was  rest- 
ing awhile  on  the  I'incio,  leaning  on  the  wall  and  looking 
down  into  the  square  below,  when  some  one  approached ;. 
and,  looking  up,  I  saw  one  of  the  sacconi,  or  penitents, 
in  his  ghostly  white  robe,  standing  near  me,  and  silently 
regarding  me,  with  strange,  wistful  eyes,  through  the 
aperture  in  his  mask.  He  did  not  offer  me  his  box  for 
alms,  and,  after  standing  irresolute  for  a  moment,  he 
walked  slowly  away,  and  leaned  on  the  wall  at  a  little 
distance  from  me. 

I  continued  my  walk,  and  thought  no  more  of  him 
until  I  was  crossing  the  square,  when  I  saw  that  he  was 
close  behind  me,  or  another  of  exactly  the  same  height 
and  movement;  tall,  and  rather  slow  and  stately.  These 
figures  are  so  common  in  Eome  that,  after  the  first 
shock,  one  becomes  accustomed  to  seeing  them  stalking 
along  like  ghosts  in  broad  daylight.  Therefore  I  did  not 
attach  any  importance  to  this  second  encounter,  and  it 
was  not  until  I  reached  the  Church  of  Sant'  Andrea 
delle  Fratte  that  I  found  he  was  still  following  me. 

The  church  was  open,  and  looked  quiet  and  restfuL    I 


1 


AST. 


NATILIKA. 


871 


you  from  the 
'  cried  Madam 
hile  you  have 

ure,  I  feel  that 
t  of  me  which 


I  some  interest 
walking  daily 
)  is  beneficial, 
in  this  iuvig- 
.  I  was  rest- 
.11  and  looking 
e  approached  ;- 
,  or  penitents, 
e,  and  silently 
,  through  the 
e  his  box  for 
a  moment,  he 
all  at  a  little 

more  of  him 
IV  that  he  was 
i  same  height 
;ately.  These 
fter  the  first 
bhem  stalking 
jfore  I  did  not 
ounter,  and  it 
Sant'  Andrea 
iving  me. 
,nd  restfuL    I 


entered,  as  T  often  do  at  that  hour,  and  walked  slowly 
about  in  the  gathering  gloom.  When  I  went  out,  the 
Saccone  was  near,  and  went  out  with  me ;  wlien  I  lifted 
the  heavy  curtain,  he  glided  through  the  door,  and  as  he 
passed  close  to  me  I  am  sure  that  he  whispered  my 
name.  It  was  scarcely  more  than  a  sigh,  yet  my  name 
sounded  distinctly  in  my  ear. 

Who  can  be  following  me  in  that  disguise,  and  what 
motive  has  he  for  doing  it  ? 

•  ■  .  »  »■ 

At  last  I  have  received  letters  from  England,  from 
Walter  and  Edith.  Walter  writes  of  the  gay  doings  at 
the  Hall ;  of  the  dinners  and  entertainments  to  intro- 
duce Lady  Hardmoor  to  the  country  gentry,  where  she 
queens  it  to  her  heart's  satisfaction.  He  says  that  she 
is  very  popular,  and  that  Lord  Hardmoor  is  in  the 
seventh  heaven  of  happiness.  Count  von  Hardenburg 
spends  most  of  his  time  at  the  Hall,  and  is  devoted  to 
Dorethea,  although  she  is  quite  changed  toward  him. 
It  is  said  that  he  has  proposed  and  been  decidedly  re- 
fused ;  tha,t  Lady  Hardmoor  does  hot  favor  the  match ; 
and  that  she  and  Dorethea  are  not  as  intimate  as  mother 
and  daughter  should  be. 

Edith's  friendly  letter  is  like  dew  from  heaven  on  the 
dry,  scorched  soil  of  my  heart.  She  has  talked  with 
Dorethea,  and  even  prevailed  on  hev  *.o  listen  to  my 
letter,  for  only  once,  and  under  the  ^.-i  imise  that  she 
would  never  speak  of  me  again.  "  She  yept  bitterly," 
says  Edith,  "  and  told  me  that  I  could  say  to  you  that 
she  had  forgiven  you,  but  that  she  could  never  see  you 
again ;  that  she  had  promised  her  father  never  even  to 
mention  your  name,  and  that  she  could  not  be  tempted 
to  disobey  him.    That  you  were  parted  from  her  forever 


IL 


;i72 


TIIK   STOllV   OV   AN    KNTimsiAsr. 


oil  I'liiUi,  1ml,  if  it  would  bo  of  any  comfort  foi*  you  to 
know  that,  slin  would  nevor  marry  Coiiufc  von  Harden- 
burg,  you  could  rest  assured  that  aw.h  a  thing  is  impos- 
sible. Sho  loves  you  a.s  deeply  as  ever,"  adils  Edith, 
with  heavenly  consolation,  "and  the  poor  child  is  fret- 
ting silently,  and  trying  to  hide  it  from  those  arouud  her. 
The  sight  of  you  in  I'aris,  so  ill  and  broken,  was  a  great 
shock  to  her,  ami  sho  is  thankful  to  know  that  you  are 
in  Rome  and  improving  in  health.  You  must  not  be 
surprised  at  Dorothea's  determination  to  obey  her  father. 
You  have  disappointed  her  grievously,  and  sho  has  lost 
confidence  in  you.  She  thinks  if  you  had  really  loved  her 
that  you  would  not  have  given  her  up  for  a  picture,  and 
sho  fools  that  your  treatment  of  her  father  was  unpro- 
voked and  unjustifiable.  Now,  my  dear  cousin,"  says 
Edith  in  conclusion,  "you  know  that  Walter  and  I 
really  love  you  and  sympathize  with  you  in  your  trouble, 
but  we  cannot  speak  of  you  again  to  Dorothea.  I  am 
very  fond  of  her,  and  we  are  excellent  friends,  but  if  I 
continue  to  act  as  a  mediator  between  you  and  her,  she 
will  distrust  me  and  I  shall  risk  losing  her  confidence 
and  affection.  But  I  promise  you  to  give  you  frequent 
news  of  Dorethoa,  and  L  will  never  lose  an  opportunity 
to  further  your  cause  when  I  can  do  so  to  advantage ; 
and  I  can  give  you  this  assurance:  She  loves  you,  and 
she  will  never  marry  any  one  else" 

Since  reading  this  letter  a  new  heaven  and  a  new 
earth  is  open  to  me.  Again  I  can  live  and  struggle  with 
the  demons  of  daiknoss  and  doubt.  Oh,  my  Dorothea, 
be  true  to  me,  and  God  only  knows  what  happiness  may 
yet  be  ours.  I  Avill  win  your  confidence  again.  You 
shall  trust  me  again,  and  know  that  I  am  worthy  of  your 
love.  .  .  . 


^lAsr. 


NATir-tKA. 


n73 


ifort  IVr  yoii  to 
lit   von   Hiinlen- 

tliiii{^  in  iinpos- 
■!•,•'  iulils  Edith, 
or  child  is  fret- 
hoso  around  her. 
kou,  was  a  great 
)w  that  yon  are 
bu  must  not  be 

obey  her  father, 
md  she  has  lost 
I  really  loved  her 
)r  a  pii'ture,  and 
ther  was  unpro- 
ar  cousin,"  says 
t  Walter  and  I 
I  in  your  trouble, 
Dorethea.  I  am 
friends,  but  if  I 
rou  and  her,  she 
g  her  confidence 
ive  you  frequent 
!  an  opportunity 
30  to  advantage ; 
te  loves  you,  and 

iven  and  a  new 
md  struggle  with 
>h,  my  Dorethea, 
it  liappiness  may 
ince  again.  You 
m  worthy  of  your 


I  have  begun  a  liirgi'  picture  of  a  Christian  ^Sfartyr, — 
my  ttrst  religious  siil)j<Mt,  —  and  I-a  Siuita  has  promised 
to  bo  the  model  for  my  young  martyr.  My  nifister, 
I'aul,  and  Mr.  Hrcnt  all  approve  of  my  study,  and  en- 
courage mo  to  carry  out  my  plan,  which  they  say  is 
sublime.  With  (iod's  help  I  intend  to  make  something 
noble  of  it.  ^fy  health  is  improving;  [  am  calm  and 
patient,  and  reconciled  to  my  present  life. 

My  stucUo  is  my  sanctuary,  and  my  saint  is  the  noble 
picture  that  has  scourged  as  well  as  blessed  me.  And  I 
am  not  the  only  one  who  worships  at  this  shrine  of  art. 
So  many  have  asked  to  see  the  wonderful  painting  that 
I  have  been  obliged  to  set  apart  a  day  each  week  for  a 
public  reception  ;  and,  now  that  the  Christmas  festivities 
are  approaching,  and  the  city  full  of  strangers,  my 
studio  is  thronged  from  morning  until  night,  and  there 
can  be  no  surer  proof  of  the  origin  of  the  picture  than 
its  remarkable  influence  over  every  one  who  sees  it. 
Even  those  who  know  but  little  of  art  are  fascinated 
with  it,  and  gaze  and  gaze  and  return  to  gaze  again. 

To-day  I  received  a  letter  from  the  commission  of  the 
Pontifical  Chalcographic  Department,  composed  of  the 
most  eminent  professors  of  St.  Luke's  Academy,  request- 
ing permission  "to  make  a  drawing  from  the  famous 
picture  by  Kaphael  Sanzio  in  your  possession,  in  order 
that  it  may  afterwards  be  faithfully  produced  in  an 
engraving,  to  be  published  on  account  of  the  Chalco- 
graphic Department  itself,  a  homage  due  to  so  magnifi. 
cent  a  work,  and  to  its  immortal  author." 

I  have  sent  a  copy  of  this  letter  to  the  London  jour- 
nals ;  although  I  think  by  this  time  the  British  public 
is  pretty  well  convinced  that  one  of  the  greatest  treas- 
ures of  art  was  exposed  iu  a  sales-room  of  its  capital  for 


194 


TIIK   HTOUy   OF   AN    KNTHU8IAHT. 


more  than  a  week,  and  that  not  one  of  its  artists,  critics, 
or  connoisseurs  recognized  in  it  the  hand  of  the  divine 
master.  Will  not  that  bo  a  burning  shame  as  long  as- 
England  has  an  art  history  ? 

•  •  * 

Again  the  Saccone.  This  morning,  wliilo  a  party  of 
Germans  was  examining  the  Raphael  with  guttural  ex- 
clamations of  delight,  my  studio  door  was  pushed  open, 
and  he  entered  slowly.  Stalking  maji-stically  up  to  the 
group  around  the  picture,  he  startled  them  by  suddenly 
thrusting  his  box  in  their  faces.  One  of  the  ladies,  with 
a  shudder  and  a  faint  cry,  dropped  a  few  baiocchi  into 
it,  and  he  turned  silently  away  and  glided  out,  after 
giving  me  an  expressive  glance  from  eyes  that  look 
hollow  and  sombre  from  their  ghastly  setting. 

Who  can  it  be  ?  A  sudden  thought  strikes  me.  Is  it 
Camille  ?  Can  Camille  be  doing  penance  in  this  sin- 
gular way  ?  No  ;  the  idea  is  absurd.  Camille  has  not 
enough  reverence  for  religion  ;  and,  besides,  what  has  he 
done  to  cause  him  to  wear  the  garb  of  a  penitent.  The 
incident  is  trivial,  yet,  for  some  reason,  this  majestic 
ghostly  figure  disturbs  me. 

IV. 

Paul  and  Laura  have  tormented  me  all  winter  to  go 
with  them  to  one  of  the  Princess  Natilika's  receptions, 
and  I  have  promised  to  accompany  them  this  evening. 
I  have  had  no  particular  reason  for  not  going,  only  that 
I  have  not  been  in  society  this  winter ;  unless  one  calls 
the  quiet  intellectual  evenings  at  the  Villa  Medici,  or 
the  little  musical  parties  at  Madam  Raymond's,  society. 
I  enjoy,  again,  quiet  visits  to  my  friends  j  but  I  have 


iffi'r-^Tf ''T-f  f"°"'-'^''^-^"''"^'  «..»»^,^»^^....n....i^,  rt    ^,„  ^,n  ,tf,„ 


lAHT. 


artists,  critics, 
I  of  the  divine 
uno  as  long  aar 


liilo  a  party  of 
til  guttural  ex- 
3  pushed  open, 
ically  up  to  the 
m  by  suddenly 
the  ladies,  with 
jw  haiocchi  into 
idcd  out,  after 
?yos  that  look 
ting. 

I'ikes  me.  Is  it 
ce  in  this  sin- 
amille  has  not 
es,  what  has  he 
penitent.  The 
I,  this  majestic 


11  winter  to  go 
ka's  receptions, 
m  this  evening, 
joing,  only  that 
mless  one  calls 
'^illa  Medici,  or 
nond's,  society. 
:1s  i  but  I  have 


T'ji'iMmrrriLMttiinin 


NATir.IKA, 


875 


very  little  di8j)()sitioii  for  faHliionablo  crowds  and  mis- 
cellaneous throngs,  such  as,  I  fancy,  one  meets  at  tho 
I'rineess  Natilika's.  lUit  I  will  confess  that  I  am  a 
little  curious  to  sre  the  woman  every  one  is  talking 
about,  and  who  exercises  iuch  a  powerful  influence  over 
Camille.  She  is  certainly  the  most  famous  woman  in 
Homo.  What  with  her  beauty,  her  wealth,  her  dia- 
monds, her  toilets,  and  her  receptions,  together  with  her 
secret  iiolitieal  reunions,  her  religious  vagaries,  her 
charities,  her  eecientrieities,  she  is  a  never-failing  subject 
of  wonder,  admiration,  or  conten>pt. 

llespectable  people  slander  her  and  fear  her,  and  yet 
they  attend  her  gay  routs  as  much,  I  fancy,  from  curi- 
osity as  from  love  of  pleasure. 

Camille  must  devote  himself  to  her  with  the  closest 
assiduity,  for  his  former  friends  scarcely  see  him.  The 
Villa  Medici  knows  him  no  more,  and  his  haiulsome  face 
is  never  seen  now  bending  over  the  music  on  Madam 
Raymond's  piano.  Angeliepie,  sweet  angel,  watches 
him  from  afar,  with  tender  solicitude,  and  softly 
wonders  if  he  is  happier,  and  if  the  Princess  is  really 
aspiring  toward  the  higher  life.  For  some  reason  he 
seems  to  avoid  me  ;  and  although  in  his  brief  meet- 
ings I  have  tried  to  induce  him  to  speak  of  his  new  en- 
chantress, he  never  mentions  her  name,  nor  refers  to 
her  in  any  nuinner.  I  think  he  is  rather  ashamed, 
knowing  that  I  know  so  much  of  his  former  love 
episode,  to  be  so  soon  again  the  victim  of  another  irreg- 
ular attachment.  Whatever  the  reason  may  be,  there 
is  no  longer  any  intimacy  or  confidence  between  us. 
The  master  and  Paul  mourn  over  him,  and  Mr.  Brent 
calls  him  the  lost  Pleiad,  while  I  keep  my  regret  locked 
in  my  own  soul.  .  .  . 


! 


876 


THE  STORY   OF   AN    KNTHUSIAST, 


Wlieu  we  entered  the  Coiiti  Talace  the  indications  of 
pomp  and  ceremony  rather  astonished  me,  and  I  looked 
at  Paul  inquiringly. 

"I  told  you  she  entertained  in  princely  style,"  he 
said,  smiling  at  my  surprise.  "  I  can  assure  you  it  is  all 
quite  regal." 

"Not  one  of  the  Roman  princesses  excels  her  in 
splendor,"  remarked  Laura.  "  They  say  her  husband 
owns  a  silver  mine,  and  I  am  sure  he  must,  if  he  pays 
all  her  bills.  Why,  she  throAvs  away  more  on  one 
evening's  entertainment  than  we  spend  in  a  year." 

"My  love,  her  husband  is  not  a  poor  artist,  but," 
he  paused,  looked  at  his  wife  and  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders, and  then  added,  "what  an  excellent  thing  it  would 
be  for  Camille  if  she  were  a  widow." 

"How  can  you  be  so  mercenary,  Paul  ?  "  exclaimed 
Laura.  "But  please  don't  discuss  her  on  her  very 
threshold." 

The  stately  salon  presented  a  dazzling  appearance 
as  we  entered.  The  blaze  of  waxen  candles,  jewels, 
flowers,  exquisite  toilets,  rich  uniforms,  with  here  and 
there  a  touch  of  the  scarlet  aud  purple  of  the  church, 
formed  a  bewildering  mass  of  color  and  light. 

Under  a  crystal  chandelier  that  poured  its  soft  light 
over  her,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  an  enchanting  creature  in 
pale  blue  and  silver,  with  a  mass  of  red-gold  hair,  and 
ablaze  with  diamonds.  She  was  surrounded  by  a  group 
of  young  Roman  nobles,  and  Camille  stood  near  her, 
talking  to  an  elderly  woman  in  black  velvet,  who  held 
an  enormous  bouquet  of  scarlet  camellias. 

"  There  she  is,"  said  Laura,  softly.  "  The  one  in  blue 
and  silver  is  the  Princess  Natilika,  and  the  old  lady  is  a 
French  countess  who  lives  with  her." 


'^^<wm'ibi>wi*it)i>WMnii/ijir>iiHi 


AST. 

indications  of 
,  and  I  looked 

;ely  style,"  he 
ire  you  it  is  all 

excels  her  in 

'  her  husband 

List,  if  he  pays 

more  on  one 

in  a  year," 

)r  artist,  but," 

;ged  his  shoul- 

thing  it  would 

1  ?  "  exclaimed 
[■  on  her  very 

ing  appearance 
andles,  jewels, 
with  here  and 
of  the  church, 
ght. 

i  its  soft  light 
ting  creatiire  in 
l-gold  hair,  and 
ided  by  a  group 
itood  near  her, 
el  vet,  who  held 

3. 

The  one  in  blue 
he  old  lady  is  a 


NATILIKA. 


8TT 


As  I  followed  in  Laura's  wake  toward  the  radiant 
creature,  I  was  seized  with  a  sudden  vertigo.  The  room 
whirled  around  me,  and  the  lights  made  fantastic  circles. 
I  saw  a  hundred  Natilika's  revolving  around  one  ghastly 
face,  the.  face  of  Camille,  whose  eyes  met  mine  just  as  I 
was  trying  to  bow  to  the  Princess. 

Other  guests  took  my  place,  and  I  drew  back,  leaning 
heavily  against  Paul,  who  was  nearest  me. 
"  Are  you  ill  ?  "  he  whispered. 
"Yes." 

"  Come  in  here  "  ;  and  he  raised  a  curtain  that  covered 
the  door  of  a  small  room,  filled  with  rare  pictures.     - 
"  For  Heaven's  sake,  what  ails  you  ?  "  he  asked. 
"  I  am  ill.     The  lights,  the  heat,  that  woman  !     Oh, 
Paul,  have  you  not  recognized  her  ?  " 
"  Who  ?  what  ?  " 

"  The  Princess  Natilika.  She  is  the  woman  we  saw 
with  Camille  that  day  in  the  Pois.  She  is  the  woman 
Avho  ruined  liim  in  Paris." 

"  Mon  Dieu  /  you  are  right.  I  knew  I  had  seen  her 
before,  but  where  I  could  not  remember.  Good  heavens  ! 
Camille  is  shameless.  He  has  alloAved  me  to  introduce 
Laura  to  his  mistress." 

"And  Angeliqive,"  I  said.  "That  innocent  girl!  he 
has  deceived  lier ! " 

"  What  had  we  better  do  '.' "'  asked  Paul,  aghast. 
"  Nothing ;  we  can  do  nothing." 

"I  will  call  Camille  to  an  account  for  his  villany,"  lie 
said,  hotly. 

"  No,  no,  you  can't  do  that ;  and  for  Heaven's  sake  don't 
let  the  ladies  know  of  our  discovery.  You  can  manage 
to  keep  Laura  away  from  her  in  the  future,  and  I  will 
give  Madam  Raymond  a  hint.  Ang61ique  must  not 
meet  her  again." 


378 


THE   STOBy  OF  AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


"  By  Heavens !  she  shall  leave  Rome.  Camille  must 
get  her  away  from  here  quietly." 

"  I  will  speak  to  Camille.  He  told  me  of  his  affair  in 
Paris,  but  he  never  knew  I  had  seen  the  woman.  I  can 
speak  to  him  better  than  any  one  else.  Leave  it  to  me, 
dear  Paul.  I  have  recovered  myself.  Now  let  us  go  to 
Laura.  I  don't  think  she  noticed  my  surprise  and  con- 
fusion." 

The  first  person  I  saAv  when  I  returned  to  the  salo7i 
was  Aug61ique  talking  to  the  Princess.  The  girl  was 
holding  one  of  Natilika's  gloved  hands  in  both  of  hers, 
and  her  gentle  eyes  were  raised  in  confiding  love  to  the 
beautiful  face  leaning  toward  her.  It  was  an  exquisite 
group,  and  the  large  old  lady  in  black,  with  the  bouquet 
of  flaming  camellias,  made  an  effective  background. 

Camille  had  disappeared,  and  I  looked  for  him  in  vain. 
He  must  have  suspected  from  my  face  that  I  knew  his 
secret,  and  therefore  wished  to  avoid  me. 

As  soon  as  I  could  find  an  opportunity,  I  gave  my 
arm  to  Madam  Raymond  and  led  her  away  from  the 
crowd.  "  I  have  something  to  say  to  you  of  a  private 
nature,"  I  said,  in  explanation.  "  I  want  to  ask  you  to 
try  to  keep  Angelique  away  from  the  Princess  Nati- 
lika." 

"Why,  my  friend,  why  should  I?  Is  there  any 
reason  ?  " 

"  She  is  not  a  suitable  acquaintance  for  a  young  girl." 

"  Do  you  know  anything  against  her  ?  or  is  it  only  sus- 
picion and  the  gossip  that  one  hears  ?  " 

"I  know,  dear  madam,  that  Angelique  must  not  be 
intimate  with  her.  Don't  force  me  to  say  any  more.  I 
don't  Avant  to  denounce  the  woman  if  she  is  trying  to  be 
respectable."' 


T 


1ST. 

Camille  must 

f  liis  affair  in 
i^oman.  I  can 
jave  it  to  me, 
\v  let  us  go  to 
H'ise  and  con- 
to  the  salon 
The  girl  was 
both  of  hers, 
ig  love  to  the 
3  an  exquisite 
h  the  bouquet 
kground. 
)r  him  in  vain, 
at  I  knew  his 

;y,  I  gave  my 
way  from  the 
11  of  a  private 
to  ask  you  to 
Princess  Nati- 

Is  there  any 

a  young  girl." 
is  it  only  sus- 

)  must  not  be 
■  any  more.  I 
is  trying  to  be 


NATILIKA. 


m 


"The  Princess  is  not  altogether  to  my  liking,"  said 
Madam  Kaymond,  after  a  moment's  thought;  "but 
Ang61ique  is  fascinated  with  her.  You  know  how 
decided  my  child  is  in  her  preferences.  I'm  afraid 
I  can't  induce  her  to  renounce  this  friendship  unless 
I  can  convince  her  that  the  Princess  is  unworthy; 
and  even  if  I  could  do  that,  she  has  such  peculiar 
ideas,  she  might  consider  it  her  duty  to  try  to  save 
her,"  and  Madam  Kaymond  smiled  sadly. 

« I  know  that  Ang^lique  is  unlike  other  girls  of  her 
age     She  lives  in  a  higher  sphere,  and  she  is  so  pure  in 
heart  that  she  might  touch  pitch  and  not  be  defiled 
But  I  don't  like  to  think  of  her  being  in  the  society  of 

that  won^an."  j      •     j 

"But  is  it  not  dreadful  for  every  one  to  be  so  deceived. 
There  is  Camille !  he  admires  her  greatly,  and  thinks  her 

^^?A  man  can  take  care  of  himself,"  I  said,  bitterly,  "but 
Angelique  must  not  be  allowed  to  visit  her.  There  are 
all  sorts  of  rumors  about  her,  and  some  day  there  will 
be  a  great   esclandre,  and  her  intimate  friends  will  be 

compromised."  -ia^oh 

'  «  Oh,  my  dear  Felix,  you  alarm  me !  What  can  I  do  ? 
"Will  not  Angelique  take  a  hint  from  you,  and  drop 

her  quietly?"  ^  i       mv-> 

"My  child  is  so  different  from  most  people.  The 
moment  she  thinks  a  person  misjudged  or  wronged,  that 
moment  she  considers  it  her  duty  to  espouse  his  or  her 
cause.  She  is  so  fond  of  the  Princess  that  she  will 
never  believe  aught  against  her.    Oh,  I  wish  she  would 

leave  Eome."  .,  •  i    •*  <.!.» 

"  She  may  be  obliged  to  sooner  than  we  think,  it  the 

Pontifical  government   discovers  that  she   is   engaged 


:  I: 


MMMi«r  J  t  *IW, MUiaSiiSgM 


880 


THE   STOEY   OF  AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


in  political  intrigue.  There  is  no  doixbt  but  she  is 
closely  watched,  and  some  one  may  denounce  her  at  any 
moment." 

While  I  was  speaking,  I  noticed  a  slight  movement 
behind  the  curtains  of  a  window  that  opened  on  a  wide 
loffffia.  Looking  closely,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  white 
figure.  The  wind  fluttered  the  curtain  apart,  and  T  dis- 
tinctly saw  the  Saccone,  with  his  gloomy  eyes  iixed  on 
me.  I  started  forward,  when  he  made  a  deprecating 
motion  with  his  hand  and  glided  away. 

Madam  Raymond  noticed  my  sudden  movement,  and 
said,  "  Was  there  not  some  one  near  the  window  ?  I 
thought  I  had  a  glimpse  of  a  white  figure." 

"  There  Avas,"  I  replied,  "  and  it  is  most  likely  a  spy 
employed  by  the  government.  The  man  had  on  a  pen- 
itent's robe.     What  is  he  doing  here  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  Saccone.  Then  you  have  not  heard  of  the 
Saccone.  They  say  that  one  has  followed  the  Princess 
all  winter.  Wherever  she  goes,  he  is  always  near  her. 
It  is  quite  romantic.  No  one  can  discover  who  he  is, 
where  he  comes  from,  or  where  he  goes.  I  am  told  that 
he  annoys  the  Princess,  that  she  is  always  nervous  when 
she  sees  him,  and  that  she  has  employed  some  one  to 
watch  him.  Prince  Catoloni  told  of  a  little  incident 
that  occurred  at  a  masked  ball  at  the  Apollo.  He  was 
dancing  with  an  exquisite  evening  star,  in  blue  gauze 
covered  with  diamonds,  and  was  crazy  to  discover  Avho 
she  was  ;  a  few  moments  after,  he  saw  her  floating  away 
in  the  arms  of  a  tall,  elegant  figure  in  the  robe  of  a  sac- 
cone. Suddenly,  while  he  watched  their  graceful  evo- 
lutions, she  Avrenched  herself  away  from  her  partner's 
arms,  and  fairly  flew  to  Catoloni,  whom  she  grasped 
frantically  and  begged  to  take  her  away  directly.  She  was 


; 


AST. 


NATILIKA. 


381 


it  but    she   is 
:ieo  her  at  any 

ght  movement 
lied  on  a  wide 
)se  of  a  white 
art,  and  T  dis- 
r  eyes  iixed  on 
a  deprecating 

novement,  and 
e  window  ?    I 

;t  likely  a  spy 
had  on  a  pen- 
heard  of  the 
i  the  Princess 
vays  near  her. 
er  who  he  is, 
I  ara  told  that 
1  nervous  when 
i  some  one  to 
little  incident 
polio.  He  was 
in  blue  gauze 
0  discover  who 
r  floating  away 
robe  of  a  sac- 
r  graceful  evo- 
\  her  partner's 
tt  she  grasped 
i-ectly.  She  was 


80  agitated  that  the  Prince  thought  she  would  faint,  so 
he  took  her  into  a  box,  where  he  was  obliged  to  use 
restoratives.  When  he  removed  her  mask,  much  to 
his  astonishment  he  saw  that  she  was  the  Princess  Nati- 
lika.  She  explained  her  alarm  by  saying  that  the  man 
must  be  a  thief  who  introduced  himself  in  that  disguise, 
for  he  had  tried  to  wrench  the  diamond  necklace  from 
her  neck.  The  Prince  immediately  acquainted  the 
police  with  the  facts  of  the  case ;  but  the  tall  Saccone 
could  not  be  found.  The  Princess  thinks  he  is  a  robber 
who  is  after  her  diamonds,  and  she  seldom  wears  them 
when  she  goes  out." 

"My  dear  madam,  you  see  there  is  some  mystery 
about  the  woman,  and  it  is  better  to  avoid  her  in  time. 
If  there  is  any  political  trouble,  she  may  involve  her 
friends  in  her  downfall." 

"  What  do  you  advise  me  to  do  ?  "  she  asked,  anxiously. 

"  Try  to  keep  Angelique  away  from  her  for  the  pres- 
ent, and  I  will  see  if  the  Princess  cannot  be  induced  to 
leave  Rome.  It  is  just  the  season  for  the  fashionable 
exodus  to  Naples.     Perhaps  she  will  decide  to  go  south 

for  a  while." 

«  Oh,  I  wish  she  would ;  it  would  save  so  much  annoy- 
ance. You  can't  think,  my  dear  friend,  how  I  hate  to 
interfere  with  any  of  Angelique's  pet  plans.  I  am  so 
often  obliged  to  thwart  her,  and  yet  she  has  her  own 
way  in  the  end.  She  has  quite  set  her  persistent  little 
soul  on  converting  the  Princess,  who,  you  know,  belongs 
to  the  Greek  Church.  Angelique  thinks  if  she  were  a 
Catholic  she  could  reach  her  more  easily." 

I  have  just  had  a  stormy  interview  with  Camille, 
He  is  furious  with  himself,  with  me,  with   every  one, 


382 


THE   STORY   OF  AN    ENTHUSIAST. 


He  acknowledges  his  fault,  and  accuses  himself  bitterly, 
and  the  only  excuse  he  offers  is  his  love.  His  love! 
think  of  tliat !  Oh  Love !  what  follies  are  committed  in 
thy  name. 

"  Can  you  expect  me  to  denounce  and  ruin  the  woman 
I  love  ?  "  he  cried,  fiercely.  "  I  tell  you  she  is  changed. 
She  is  another  being  ;  she  has  no  longer  the  cruel  temp- 
tations of  poverty.  She  has  given  her  youth  and  beauty 
to  an  old  man  for  his  wealth  and  name,  and  she  wishes 
to  be  respectable.  Can  I  drag  her  down  ? —  can  I  proclaim 
to  the  world  that  she  was  once  disreputable  ?  I  repeat  to 
you  that  I  love  her,  wildly,  madly,  as  I  did  in  the  first 
flush  of  my  passion.  I  have  forgotten  all  the  past,  all  the 
cruelty,  all  the  wrong,  all  the  suffering,  and  I  love  her, 
and  shall  always  love  her,  and  I  will  go  with  her  to 
eternal  ruin  rather  than  give  her  up.  As  for  our  friends, 
I  did  not  introduce  them,  I  did  not  invite  them.  They 
came  with  the  rest  of  the  world  to  share  her  pleasures  and 
feast  at  her  table.  And  Angelique,  Natilika  loves  her," 
—  I  shuddered  at  the  thought,  —  "  and  it  is  a  sign  that 
there  is  much  latent  goodness  in  her  when  she  can  love 
as  innocent  a  being  as  Angdlique,  and  she  will  never 
harm  her ;  she  is  devoted  to  that  saintly  creature.  How, 
then,  can  you  call  her  all  evil  ?  I  never  encouraged  the 
intimacy  between  them  ;  it  came  about  naturally.  The 
Princess  knows  that  I  wanted  to  marry  Angelique,  and 
there  is  not  one  thought  of  jealousy  in  her  heart.  She 
loves  the  girl,  and  listens  to  her  as  reverently  as  though 
the  Madonna  spoke  to  her.  You  need  not  fear !  she  will 
n«ver  stain  the  purity  of  such  a  soul,  and  La  Santa  has 
a  singular  influence  over  the  Princess.  Often  after  they 
talk  together,  she  is  melancholy  and  distraite,  declares 
that  she  is  weary  of  the  world,  and  would  like  to  give  up 


iiMM4nMwi»*»- 


[AST. 

iinself  bitterly, 
ve.  Hia  love! 
B  committed  in 

uin  the  woman 
ihe  is  changed, 
he  cruel  temp- 
Lith  and  beauty 
and  she  wishes 
-  can  I  proclaim 
le  ?  I  repeat  to 
did  in  the  first 
the  past,  all  the 
,nd  I  love  her, 
go  with  her  to 
for  our  friends, 
e  them.  They 
sr  pleasures  and 
lika  loves  her," 
it  is  a  sign  that 
n  she  can  love 
she  will  never 
ireature.  How, 
encouraged  the 
laturally.  The 
Angelique,  and 
ler  heart.  She 
jntly  as  though 
t  fear !  she  will 
I  La  Santa  has 
)f ten  after  they 
strdite,  declares 
.  like  to  give  up 


MATILIKA. 


AMI 


everything  for  a  religious  life,  and  she  is  quite  sincere 
for  the  time,  and  her  charity  is  enough  to  save  a  soul. 
She  gives  to  the  poor  and  suffering  with  both  hands." 

"  My  dear  Camille,"  I  said,  moved  in  spite  of  myself 
by  his  passionate  defence  of  the  woman  who  had  been 
his  evil  genius,  "  you  plead  her  cause  nobly !  I  hope  she 
will  not  deceive  you  again." 

« It  does  not  matter,"  he  said,  stubbornly,  "  whether 
she  deceives  me  or  not.  I  deserve  my  fate,  and  I  am 
ready  for  it.  I  would  rather  share  eternal  torment  with 
her  than  live  in  Paradise  without  her.  I  have  cast  in  my 
lot  with  hers,  and  where  she  goes  I  shall  go  with  her." 
"  From  all  I  hear,  she  may  go  to  Sant'  Angelo.  Are 
you  ready  to  go  there  with  her  ?  " 

«Yes  —  even  to  hell,"  he  returned,  savagely. 
«  My  poor  friend,  you  will  live  to  regret  your  folly." 
"No,"  he  said,  gloomily,  "I  will  not  live  to  regret  it." 
"  I  see  there  is  nothing  I  can  say  or  do  for  you." 
"  Nothing  —  only  I  beg  of  you  not  to  betray  her.    Let 
the  world  think  well  of  her  as  long  as  it  will." 

"I  shall  say  nothing,"  I  replied.  "But,  remember, 
if  harm  comes  to  Angelique,  1  shall  hold  you  accountable. 
She  has  neither  father  nor  brother,  and  I  intend  to  be 
both  to  her.  However,  let  me  tell  you  that  I  think  it 
would  be  well  for  the  Princess  to  leave  Rome.  In  that 
way  she  can  avoid  all  disagreeable  complications." 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  he  returned,  eagerly.  "  She 
has  been  a  little  indiscreet  in  expressing  her  political 
views,  and  I  am  afraid  she  is  watched.  Yes,  I  agree 
with  you,  —  she  had  better  leave  Rome." 


■■ 


\ 


ty 


884 


TUli  STOUy  OF  AN    ENTHUSIAST. 


.       r  V. 

Sevkbal  weeks  have  passed,  and  Natilika  has  not  left 
Rome,  and,  as  far  as  1  know,  there  is  no  change  in  the 
relations  between  her  and  society. 

It  is  true,  I  see  but  little  of  my  friends,  as  I  am  work- 
ing steadily  on  my  picture,  which  promises  well. 

La  Santa  has  not  yet  given  me  the  sittings  she 
promised.  She  has  been  in  religious  retirement  for  the 
last  two  weeks,  as  is  the  custom  here  during  Lent.  I 
was  glad  to  know  of  it,  as  it  keeps  her  away  from  the 
Princess. 

I  can  understand  the  fascination  such  a  woman  as 
Natilika  has  for  a  girl  like  Angeliquo.  She  is  a  romance 
to  her.  Her  beauty  and  wealth,  and  the  mystery  that 
surrounds  her,  make  her  very  interesting  and  poetical. 
Besides,  there  is  a  charm,  a  magnetism  about  her,  in  her 
eyes,  in  her  voice,  that  is  quite  irresistible.  To-day  she 
came  to  see  the  Raphael.  IMy  studio  was  full  of  visitors, 
and  among  them  were  some  very  pretty  women ;  but 
they  paled  into  insignificance  beside  her.  Her  manners 
are  natural  and  gracious,  and  her  voice  so  musical  that, 
listening  to  it,  one  even  forgets  the  beauty  of  her  face. 
Ah,  she  has  the  fatal  gift !  I'oor  Camille !  While  look- 
ing at  her,  I  could  almost  find  it  in  my  heart  to  excuse 
him. 

Prince  Catoloni,  a  wealthy  young  Roman,  was  with 
her.  He  too  seems  to  be  under  the  spell,  and  she  is  cer- 
tainly very  gracious  to  him.  While  she  was  laughing  and 
talking,  the  centre  of  a  bright  group,  who  should  suddenly 
appear  in  the  door  but  the  ghostly  penitent !  He  stood 
quite  still,  with  his  eyes,  that  seemed  to  burn  and  glow 


.•>* 


JVJir  ijlMn 


lAST. 


KATILIKA. 


885 


ika  has  not  left 
o  change  in  the 

i,  as  I  am  work- 
;es  well. 
16  sittings  she 
;irenient  for  the 
Lhiring  Lent.  I 
away  from  the 

Ix  a  woman  as 
lie  is  a  romance 
e  mystery  that 
g  ami  poetical. 
)out  her,  in  her 
le.  To-day  she 
full  of  visitors, 
;y  women ;  but 
Her  manners 
o  musical  that, 
ity  of  her  face. 
3 !  While  look- 
heart  to  excuse 

Oman,  was  with 
,  and  she  is  cer- 
,as  laughing  and 
should  suddenly 
;ent !  He  stood 
burn  and  glow 


with  lurid  fire,  fixed  on  the  I'rincess,  and  1  could  see  his 
chest  expand  and  dilute,  the  folds  of  his  robe  tremble  and 
shiver,  and  his  slender  fingers  creep  together  and  twist 
and  writhe  as  though  he  were  in  agony.     Walking  quietly 
toward  him,  I  was  at  his  side  before  he  noticed  me.     I 
could  hear  his  sui)presscd  breathing,  and  see  the  swollen, 
knotted  veins  in  his  hands.     Those  hands  !  —  ah,  I  knew 
them  !     lending  toward  him,  I  whispered,  "  I'olonae  ! " 
He  started,  gave  me  a  quick,  keen  glance,  lifted  his 
hands  with  the  palms  outward,  made  a  slightly  negative 
motion  with  his  head,  and,  with  a  backward  step,  glided 
out,  letting  the  portiere   fall  between  us,  and    no   one 
noticed  him.     The  Princess  went  on  with  her  light  banter. 
Catoloni  hung  over  her  enchanted,    while  the   others 
laughed  heartily   at  her  merry  sallies,     l^it  I  felt  as 
though  a  cold  wind  had  swept  over  me,  and  chilled  me 

to  the  marrow. 

•  .  »  • 

I  have  just  returned  from  my  walk,  and  find  a  letter 
from  England,  from  Walte'r  — the  first  for  a  month. 
What  a  welcome  sight!  how  my  heart  throbs,  and  with 
what  a  wild  thrill  the  blood  dashes  through  my  veins 
when  I  see  one  of  those  letters  with  her  majesty's  head 
in  the  corner,  for  then  I  know  I  shall  hear  something  of 
Dorethea,  my  darling !- ever  mine,  though  this  mourn- 
ful silence  lies  between  us. 

Now  I  have  read  my  letters,  I  am  unutterably  sad. 
Dorethea  is  ill,  or,  rather,  ailing.  They  have  had  a  doctor 
down  from  London ;  and  Edith  says,  in  her  cheerful,  reas- 
suring way,  that  it  is  nothing  serious,  only  a  nervous 
attack  and  a  slight  cold  ;  and  then  she  adds  :  "But,  con- 
fidentially, dear  Felix,  Dorethea  is  fretting.  She  is  very 
unhappy  with  her  new  mother.    They  are  not  congenial, 


i 


■4a 


iT 


3Sfi 


THE  STORY   OF   AN   KNTHUHIA8T. 


and  the  breach  widens  every  day.     Walter  will  tell  you 
of  the  trouble  at  the  Hall," 

Then  I  turn  eagerly  to  Walter's  letter.  What  is  this  '{ 
"Count  von  Hardenburg  and  Lord  llardnioor  have 
quarrelled.  I  know  nothing  of  the  cause,  nor  the  partic- 
ulars," he  says.  "  The  house  was  full  of  company  for 
the  Christmas  holidays.  We  were  there  for  a  week. 
The  trouble  began  with  the  Claverliouses.  It  is  said 
that  Lady  Hardmoor  was  rude  to  May  Claverhouse,  who 
had  received  special  attention  from  Count  von  Harden- 
burg. You  know  May  is  an  heiress.  Lady  Claverhouse 
resented  Lady  Hardmoor's  rudeness  to  her  daughter, 
and  complained  to  his  lordship.  Then  there  was  a  terri- 
ble scene  be'tween  my  uncle  and  his  wife,  and  afterwards 
an  awful  tempest  in  the  study  between  his  lordship  and 
the  Count.  Their  angry  voices  were  distinctly  heard 
outside  by  the  servants,  and  all  manner  of  shameful 
things  were  whispered  about.  However,  the  result  was 
that  Count  von  Hardenburg  was  driven  hurriedly  to  the 
station,  and  his  baggage  sent  after  him.  The  next  morn- 
ing the  Claverhouses  left,  and  my  lady  remained  in  her 
room  for  several  days  ill  with  a  cold.  Lord  Hardmoor 
was  suddenly  called  away  on  important  business,  and 
Dorethea  was  left  to  entertain  the  remaining  guests. 
But  it  was  easy  to  see  that  she  was  under  a  severe 
mental  strain.  Her  face  was  very  pale,  and  her  eyes 
had  a  frightened,  sorrowful  look,  which  was  pitiful  to  see. 
Edith  did  all  she  could  to  help  her  until  the  last  guest 
had  gone ;  then  my  poor  cousin  broke  down  and  went  to 
bed.  She  remained  in  her  room  several  days,  and  when 
her  father  returned  to  the  Hall,  he  had  the  doctor  down 
from  London,  who  pronounced  her  illness  a  nervous 
attack. 


#% 


•rmtesrms.gt' 


AT.       ^ 

•  will  tell  you 

What  is  this  ? 
rdiiioov  have 
lor  the  partic- 

company  for 
!  for  a  week. 
8.  It  is  said 
verhouse,  who 
;  von  Harden- 
y  Claverhouse 
her  daughter, 
re  was  a  terri- 
ud  afterwards 
1  lordship  and 
3tinctly  heard 
r  of  shameful 
;he  result  was 
irriedly  to  the 
'he  next  morn- 
nained  in  her 
)rd  Hardinoor 
business,  and 
aining  guests, 
iider  a  severe 

and  her  eyes 
i  pitiful  to  see. 
the  last  guest 
n  and  went  to 
ays,  and  when 
e  doctor  down 
3ss  a  nervous 


NATILIKA. 


3H7 


"  Of  what  happened  between  my  uncle  and  Count  von 
Hardenburg,  we  really  know  no  more  than  the  riimurs 
wo  hear.     Dorcthea  has  never  mentioned   the  subject; 
but  we  notice  that  she  never  speaks  of  the  Coui.t.     Lord 
Hardmoor  is  very   gloomy,  and   her  ladyship  remains 
most  of  the  time  in  her  own  apartment.     She  has  sud- 
denly become  an  invalid,  but  I  think  she  will  recover 
when  she  goes  to  town,  which  she  talks  of  doing  soon. 
I  believe  she  does  not  like  the  country.     One  of  the  ru- 
mors—which, I  suppose,  I  ought  not  to  repeat,  as  it  may 
not  be  true— is  that  my  uncle  has  lost  a  large  amount  of 
money   through   some   unfortunate   speculation  of   the 
Count's.     Whether  that  be  true  or  not,  one  thing  is  cer- 
tain ;  there  has  been  very  serious  trouble  between  Lord 
Hardmoor  and  Count  von  Hardenburg,  for  my  uncle  is 
'  greatly  changed.     You  remember  how  youthful  and  gay 
he  was  last  winter;  now  he  seems  old,  morose,  and  irri- 
table, much  as  he  did  just  after  my  aunt's  death.     I 
think  he  is  greatly  disappointed  in  his  domestic  rela- 
tions." 

These  letters  have  given  me  a  great  deal  to  think  of, 
and  my  feelings  are  of  a  mixed  character  —  sorrow  and 
elation,  if  the  two  emotions  can  be  combined.  I  suffer 
for  Dorethea,  sweet  soul !  she  is  ill,  and  she  has  had 
another  rude  shock.  But  at  last  she  has  discovered  that 
I  was  not  unjust  to  Von  Hardenburg.  Lord  Hardmoor 
has  learned  of  something  horribly  dishonorable,  to 
change  him  so  suddenly.  Now  he  will  see  that  I  was 
right,  and  perhaps  he  will  be  more  lenient  toward  me. 

God  knows  that  I  do  not  wish  to  build  upon  another's 
ruin ;  still,  I  am  thankful  for  anything  that  adds  another 
ray  to  the  pale  light  of  hope  that  leads  me  onward. 


\tKL-'      ^^Br 


!/■ 


THE  8TOUY  OF  AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


VI. 

It  has  been  some  time  Hiiico  I  wrote  anything  in  my 
journiil.  Sueli  startliiif?  events  liavo  transpired,  one  after 
another,  tliat  I  have  liad  but  little  opportunity  for  quiet 
reHection. 

Tlio  first  of  this  series  of  strange  ineidents  was  the 
sudden  departure  of  Cauiille.  Ifo  disappeared  without 
R  word  or  sign  to  any  of  his  friends.  K\inior  says  that 
he  and  the  I'rincess  Natiliita  cpuirrelled  about  Prince 
Catoloni;  but  the  Princess  says  he  was  summoned 
away  by  the  illness  of  ins  mother.  Poth  may  be  correct, 
he  may  have  quarrelled  with  the  Princess,  and  his 
mother's  illness  may  have  furnished  a  pretext  for  his 
sudden  departure.  However  it  may  be,  he  haa  gone, 
and  no  one  had  an  interview  with  him  before  he  left  but 
Angelique.  She  had  just  left  her  retreat,  and  had  seen 
neither  Camille  nor  the  Princess  for  some  weeks. 

Madam  Raymond  told  me  that  one  morning  Camille 
came  in  hurriedly  and  greatly  excited,  and  asked 
permission  to  see  Angelique  for  a  few  moments.  She 
sent  for  her  daughter  to  come  to  the  salon,  and  then 
reared  to  her  own  room,  A  half-hour  afterward  An- 
gelique came  to  her,  greatly  distressed  and  weeping 
bitterly. 

"When  I  asked  her  the  cause  of  her  trouble,"  said 
Madam  Raymond,  "she  only  answered,  'Poor  Camille, 
poor  Camille !  I  shall  never  see  him  again  on  earth.  I 
can  do  i.othing  more  to  help  liim ;  I  can  oidy  pray  for 
him.     Oh,  mama,  he  is  going  away  forever.' 

"  '  But  why  is  he  going  away  ? '  1  urged. 

" '  I  can't  tell  you,  mama ;  don't  ask  me.     1  promised 


-iiiiiiiiii.miinii 


^#k 


:a8T. 


NATIUKA. 


SRf» 


nytliing  in  my 
[)irt!il,  onoaftor 
unity  for  quiet 

iilcnts  was  thu 
Iioiired  without 
iinior  says  that 
[  about  I'linco 
•iiH  sununonod 
may  be  correct, 
icesM,  and  liis 
»retu\t  for  his 
,  he  has  gone, 
'ore  he  left  but 
;,  and  had  seen 

weeks. 

orning  Camille 
'd,  and  asked 
moments.  She 
alon,  and  then 

afterward  An- 
1  and  weeping 

trouble,"  said 
'Poor  Camille, 
in  on  earth.  I 
1  only  pray  for 
r.' 

e.    1  promised 


him  that  I  W(Mi1<1  keep  his  secret.  If  any  one  asks,  you 
can  say  that  his  mother  is  ill,  and  that  lio  has  gone  to 
her.' 

"And  she  would  tell  me  nothing  more,"  addtul  Madam 
Kaymoiiil ;  "  but  I  knoio  the  I'rincess  is  the  cause  of  his 
leaving  so  suddenly,  for  since  his  depart\ire  Aiigi'liciue 
has  never  spoken  of  her,  and  slit;  seems  tu  avoid  meet- 
ing her.  Oil,  I  wish  she  would  leave  Home  !  It  is  really 
shameful  the  way  she  l)eliaves  witli  Catuloni,  And  she  is 
losing  gr(mnd  every  day:  Mr.  Hreiit  said  there  were 
very  few  ladies  at  her  last  reception,  and  tliat  her  rooms 
were  crowded  with  men  of  doubtful  reputation  —  Liberals, 
free-thinkers,  and  foreigners  of  all  descriptions.  The 
Trincess  Catoloni  was  very  intimate  with  her  at  one 
time,  but  since  her  son  has  taken  Camille's  jdaco  she  has 
quite  dropped  Natilika,  and  is  never  seen  at  the  Conti 
I'alace." 

And  so  the  talk  goes  on,  Camille  has  vanished,  and 
the  Princess  Natilika  makes  herself  more  notorious 
every  day  by  the  most  open  and  daring  flirtation  with 
the  young  (juardia  Nobili. 

»  ♦ 

And  now  a  startling  rumor  is  flying  about  the  city. 
Catoloni  has  been  arrested  on  a  charge  of  political  conspir- 
acy. Some  ono  has  denounced  him ;  who,  no  one  knows 
outside  of  the  tribunal,  but  the  proof  is  sufficient  to  send 
him  to  Sant'  Angelo.  His  father,  who  is  a  stanch 
friend  of  the  Pope,  and  a  president,  is  plunged  in  deep 
grief,  as  well  as  his  mother,  who  attributes  her  son's 
downfall  to  the  Princess  Natilika. 

A  few  evenings  after  Catoloni's  arrest,  I  was  walking 
on  the  Pincio,  where  I  saw  the  Pruicess  Natilika,  more 
beautiful  than  ever,  sitting  in  her  landau,  lavishing  her 


390 


THE   STOUV   OF   AN    ENTHUSIAST. 


bewitching  smiles  and  fatal  glances  on  a  group  of  fash- 
ionable men,  wlio  hung  around  her  as  though  they  were 
unfler  the  influence  of  a  spell,  while  at  a  little  distance, 
among  the  trees,  I  saw  the  tall  ligure  of  the  penitent 
watching  her  furtively  —  an  avenger  ever  on  her  track. 
It  was  like  a  Greek  tragedy  —  love,  youth,  beauty,  and 
joy  in  the  foreground,  and  in  the  background  an  unseen 
fury  waiting  for  the  moment  of  doom.  Silently,  gloomily, 
the  ghostly  Nemesis  stood  there  in  the  shadow,  looking 
out  with  sombre  eyes ;  music  and  mirth,  the  sunlight, 
the  flashing  fountain,  the  tender  green  of  the  budding 
spring — all  in  strong  contrast  to  that  grim,  tragic  figure, 
clutching  the  folds  of  his  robe  with  Avrithing  fingers. 

When  the  music  was  over  and  the  carriage  turned  to 
descend  the  inclined  plane  to  the  square  below,  the  Sao- 
cone  raised  his  clenched  hand  with  a  menacing  gesture 
toward  the  Princess,  and  then,  unuo+^iced  by  the  crowd, 
he  stalked  away,  and  I  saw  him  no  more. 

>  ■  •  •  «  ' 

I  had  just  finished  my  dinner,  and  was  about  lighting 
a  cigar,  when  a  servant  brought  me  a  note.  I  opened  it 
hastily.  It  was  from  Ang^lique  :  "  My  dear  friend,  come 
to  me  directly.     I  need  you  greatly." 

When  I  reached  the  Capo  lo  Casa  I  found  Angelique 
in  the  salon,  pacing  the  floor  nervously,  and  Madam  Ray- 
mond looking  from  the  window  with  a  troubled,  anxious 
face. 

'•'  Oh,  my  friend,"  cried  Aiigelique,  as  I  entered,  "  I 
am  so  grateful  to  you  for  coming  directly.  Something 
terrible  has  happened,  or,  rather,  is  about  to  happen." 
Then,  lowering  her  voice,  and  glancing  around  cau- 
tiously, "  The  Princess  will  be  arrested  to-night  for 
political  conspiracy." 


T 


I  AST. 

group  of  fash- 
ough  they  were 

little  distance, 
of  the  penitent 
3r  on  her  track, 
til,  beauty,  and 
ound  an  unseen 
ently,  gloomily, 
ihadow,  looking 
1,  the  sunlight, 
of  the  buddiug 
m,  tragic  figure, 
ling  fingers, 
riage  turned  to 
below,  the  Sao- 
;nacing  gesture 
i  by  the  crowd, 


}  about  lighting 
te.  I  opened  it 
;ar  friend,  come 

3und  Angelique 
nd  Madam  Kay- 
oubled,  anxious 

i  I  entered,  "  I 
ly.  Something 
ut  to  happen." 
ig  around  cau- 
sd   to-night  for 


NATILIKA. 


891 


"You  know  what  that  means  here  in  Rome,"  ex- 
claimed Madam  Raymond,  coming  forward,  "and  An- 
gelique has  the  mad  idea  that  she  can  save  her.  I  beg 
of  you  not  to  listen  to  her." 

"  Mama,  you  must  not  say  that.  I  shall  try,  and  if 
I  fail  it  will  break  my  heart.  Poor  Princess  !  deserted 
by  all  and  in  danger !     It  is  right  that  I  should  try  to 

save  her." 

"  How  do  you  know  this  ?  "  I  asked,  looking  from  one 

to  the  other. 

"  Quite  by  accident,"  replied  Madam  Raymond. 

"I  will  tell  you  how  I  discovered  the  plot,"  inter- 
rupted Angelique.      "Let   us    speak   low.      It   seems 
as  if  the  walls  had  ears,  and  as  if  we  were  surrounded 
by  spies.     Mama  and  I  were  waiting  at  Mrs.  Brent's 
for  them  to  return  from  a  drive.     You  know  how  Mr. 
Brent's  studio  is  situated  next  to  the  mlo7i,  with  a  win- 
dow opening  out  of  each  on  to  a  small  loggia?   While  we 
were  waiting,  mama  took  up  a  book,  and  I  stepped  out- 
side and  sat  down  near  the  studio  window.    Glancing 
into  the  studio,  I  noticed  a  man  sitting  near  the  door. 
I  supposed  he  was  a  model  waiting  for  Mr.  Brent.   While 
I  sat  there  quite  still,  I  heard  the  outer  door  open,  and 
some  one  enter  who  spoke  to  the  man  in  a  language  I 
did  not  understand.     I  think   it  was   Russian.     They 
talked  for  a  few  moments  in  a  low  voice,  but  I  distinctly 
heard  the   names  Natilika  and  Catoloni  repeated  sev- 
eral times.     Then  I  heard  a  sound  like  the  unfolding  of 
a  paper,  and,  leaning  forward,  I  looked  in.     Their  backs 
were  toward  me,  and  the  person  who  entered  was  the 
Saccone.    He  held  a  paper  in  his  hand,  and  I  sa\y  the 
pontifical  seal.     It  was  an  order  of  arrest.     '  To-niglit,' 
the  Saccone  said,  in  Italian,  '  when  she  comes  out  to  go 


k 


392 


THE   STOliY   OF  AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


to  the  Opera.'  Then  the  other  said,  '-A  watch  must 
be  placed  at  the  palace.' 

"I  dared  not  listen  any  longer,  so  I  slipped  back  into 
the  salon  with  mama.  Directly  we  heard  the  outer 
door  open  and  close,  and  when  mama  looked  into  the 
studio  it  was  empty.  Now  it  is  all  explained.  The 
Saccone  who  has  followed  the  Princess  all  winter  is  a 
government  spy.  He  has  denounced  her,  and  they  will 
arrest  her  to-night." 

"And  my  child  thinks  she  can  prevent  it,"  cried  Madam 
Raymond,  turning  appealingly  to  me. 

"  What  do  you  propose  to  do  ?  "  I  asked,  looking  at 
Angdlique. 

"  I  have  thought  it  all  out,  if  mama  will  consent,  aud 
you  will  go  with  me  to  the  Conti  Palace.  It  is  very 
simple,  and  is  sure  to  succeed.  I  will  dress  myself 
in  the  black  mantle  and  veil  I  wear  when  I  visit  the 
hospitals  with  Sister  Agnes,  and  we  will  go  to  the 
palace  and  tell  the  Princess  of  her  danger,  and  entreat 
her  to  leave  Rome  at  once.  A  train  leaves  for  Naples 
at  9  o'clock  to-night.     She  must  go  on  that  train." 

"  But  how  can  she  escape  if  the  palace  is  watched  ?  " 

"  She  must  put  on  my  mantle  and  veil  and  come  out 
with  you  and  mama.  Then  you  must  bring  her  here, 
and  afterwards  take  her  to  the  station.  When  once  in 
Naples,  she  will  be  safe." 

"  Your  plan  seems  feasible,"  I  said,  after  a  moment's 
thought.  "But  do  you  tliink  it  wise  to  compromise 
yourself.  You  can't  tell  what  trouble  you  may  get  in 
by  helping  her  to  escape  if  we  succeed,  and  if  we  do  not 
we  run  some  risk  even  to  go  to  the  palate  at  this 
time." 

"  That  is  what  I  liave  been  telling  Jier,"  cried  Madam 


T 


•^tt) 


Mto 


mBKaim- 


J8IAST. 
'•A  watch  must 

ilipped  back  into 
heard  the  outer 
looked  into  the 
explained.  The 
is  all  winter  is  a 
ler,  and  they  will 

;  it,"  cried  Madam 

asked,  looking  at 

will  consent,  aud 
ilace.  It  is  very 
'ill  dress  myself 
when  I  visit  the 
will  go  to  the 
nger,  and  entreat 
eaves  for  Naples 
that  train." 
ice  is  watched  ?  " 
eil  and  come  out 
;  bring  her  here, 
.    When  once  in 

after  a  moment's 
e  to  compromise 
J  you  may  get  in 
and  if  we  do  not 
e  palabe  at  this 

er,"  cried  Madam 


N  ATI  LIRA. 


898 


Raymond.  "  She  must  remain  there  if  we  get  the  Vrin- 
cess  away.  They  will  suspect  her,  and  she  will  go  to 
Sant'  Angelo  instead  of  the  Princess." 

"  You  must  think  of  what  you  are  about  to  do,"  I  said, 
gravely.     "  There  is  danger  for  us  all." 

«  Oh,  if  you  fear,  if  you  really  think  there  is  danger, 
I  will  not  lead  you  into  it,"  she  replied,  earnestly. 

"  My  dear  Angelique,  I  do  not  fear  for  myself,  and  I 
will  go  anywhere  and  do  anything  for  you.  But  it  is 
for  the  Princess  that  we  must  run  this  risk,  and  I  am 
afraid  she  is  not  worth  it." 

"  If  she  is  guilty,  there  is  all  the  more  reason  for 
not  deserting  her.     Who  will  help  her  if  I  do  not  ?  " 

«< Angelique,  I  really  have  no  patience  with  you;  I 
really  can't  help  you  in  this  ;  I  can't  allow  you  "  — 

«  Dear  mama,  please  say  no  more.  If  there  is  danger, 
I  don't  want  to  expose  you  to  it.     Stay  here,  and  I  will 

go  alone." 

"  No,"  I  said,  firmly.  "  You  must  not.  Leave  your 
mother  here  to  receive  the  Princess.  I  will  go  with  you, 
and  we  will  see  what  can  be  done." 

Madam  Raymond  was  unwilling  to  allow  her  daughter 
to  go  without  her,  but  when  I  explained  that  it  was 
useless  to  expose  herself  to  suspicion,  and  thereby 
lose  every  chance  of  helping  Angelique  if  she  were 
detained,  she  reluctantly  consented. 

In  a  few  moments  the  girl  appeared  in  her  black 
mantle  and  veil,  and  we  set  out  together  for  the  Conti 

Palace. 

When  we  entered  the  c»urt  of  the  palace,  I  noticed  a 
man  standing  near,  another  was  lighting  a  cigar  in  the 
embrasure  of  a  window,  and  a  third  was  slowly  pacing 
back  and  forth  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs;  as  if  he  were 


T 


394 


THK  STORY   OF   AN   KNTHUSIAST. 


waiting  for  some  one.  He  glanced  at  us  indifferently 
as  we  passed  and  ascended  tlie  long  flight  of  stairs,  brill- 
iantly lighted  and  decorated  with  stately  palms  and 
rare  plants,  growing  in  bronze  vases  and  urns  of  mala- 
chite and  carved  stone. 

"The  Princess  is  at  table,"  said  the  stately  major- 
domo,  who  ushered  us  into  a  reception-room. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  disturb  her,"  said  Angelique,  writing 
hurriedly  on  a  card,  "  but  you  must  give  this  to  your  mis- 
tress instantly." 

The  man  hesitated,  and  repeated,  «  Madam  is  at  table." 

"  It  does  not  matter.  I  must  see  her.  It  is  of  great 
importance,"  urged  Angelique. 

"Take  the  card  to  your  mistress  at  once,"  I  said,  in  a 
voice  that  admitted  of  no  delay. 

He  bowed  silently,  like  an  automaton,  and  stalked  away 
with  his  chin  in  the  air. 

Angelique  looked  at  me.  She  was  quite  pale,  and  her 
eyes  had  an  intense  gleam  in  them.  "  Oh,  I  hope  she 
will  come,"  she  whispered.     "There  is  no  time  to  lose." 

In  a  few  moments  we  heard  the  trailing  of  a  silken 
dress  over  the  marble  floor  of  the  corridor,  and  the 
Princess  entered,  a  vision  of  grace  and  beauty  in  her 
satin  gown  and  jewels.  She  was  pale,  and  her  lips 
trembled  nervously,  but  she  tried  to  smile,  while  she 
looked  from  one  to  the  other. 

"  My  angel ! "  she  cried,  as  Angelique  went  forward  to 
meet  her,  "  I  thought  I  should  never  see  you  again.  What 
is  it  ?  Why  do  you  send  me  such  an  imperative  mes- 
sage ?  "  and  the  Princess  embraced  the  girl  with  effusion. 

Angelique  drew  back  coldly,  and  said,  in  a  grave  voice, 
"Princess,  I  am  the  bearer  of  evil  tidings.  You  are 
in  great  danger." 


T 


IIAST. 

US  indifferently 
b  of  staii's,  brill- 
;ely  palms  and 
L  urns  of  mala- 

5  stately  major- 
lom. 

gelique,  writing 
this  to  your  mis- 
lam  is  at  table." 
It  is  of  great 

ce,"  I  said,  in  a 

nd  stalked  away 

te  pale,  and  her 
Oh,  I  hope  she 
o  time  to  lose." 
ling  of  a  silken 
rridor,  and  the 
.  beauty  in  her 
e,  and  her  lips 
smile,  while  she 

went  forward  to 
ou  again.  What 
imperative  mes- 
irl  with  effusion, 
in  a  grave  voice, 
.lings.    You  are 


NATILIKA. 


395 


"  Great  danger ! "  she  repeated,  with  a  forced  laugh ; 
"  why,  what  do  you  mean !  Mr.  Markland,  what  does 
the  child  mean  ?  "  she  asked,  turning  to  me.  "  In  great 
danger  ?  here  in  my  own  house,  surrounded  by  friends ! 
^ly  little  love,  you  must  be  dreaming ! " 

"  Oh,  no !  It  is  all  true.  They  are  going  to  arrest 
you  as  an  accomplice  of  Prince  Catoloni." 

"  Arrest  me  !  "  she  almost  shrieked.  "  Oh,  who  has 
done  this  ?     It  is  false !     It  is  an  infamous  lie ! " 

"  No,  no !  It  is  true.  I  have  accidentally  dis- 
covered it  all.  It  is  the  penitent  who  has  followed 
you  all  winter.  He  is  a  spy  employed  by  the  gov- 
ernment, and  he  has  denounced  you,"  returned  Ange- 
lique,  breathlessly. 

"  Does  the  girl  know  what  she  is  saying,  monsieur  !  " 
she  cried,  turning  to  me  fiercely.  "  It  cannot  be.  It  is 
impossible  ! " 

"  Madam,  the  palace  is  under  the  surveillance  of  the 
police,"  I  replied,  coldly.  "  They  are  below,  waiting  to 
arrest  you  when  you  go  to  the  Opera." 

In  an  instant  she  was  transformed  into  a  fury. 
"  Demon !  fiend  ! "  she  hissed  between  her  clenched 
teeth.  "Has  he  taken  his  revenge  in  this  way!  may 
the  flames  of  perdition  consume  his  soul !  Oh,  wretch, 
wretch ! "  she  repeated,  while  she  writhed  and  twisted 
in  a  spasm  of  rage. 

I  looked  at  her  in  astonishment,  while  Angelique 
paled  with  fear.  She  seemed  suddenly  to  have  grown 
taller.  With  her  small  head  thrown  back,  and  the  me- 
tallic glow  of  her  hair,  the  cruel  glitter  of  her  black 
eyes,  which  were  hard  and  keen,  the  fierce  white  teeth 
pressed  into  her  nether  lip,  the  strained,  rigid  muscles,, 
and  the  long  shimmering  train  of  lustrous  satin,  whicL 


39ri 


TMIO   STOKY   OF   AN    KNTHUSIAST. 


glowed  with  jewelled  scales,  she  looked  like  a  brilliant 
envenomed  serpent  about  to  spring  upon  its  victim. 

Could  it  be  possible  that  this  soft,  seductive  beauty- 
could  throw  off  her  mask  so  easily  and  show  the  demon 
that  lurked  beneath ! 

For  a  few  moments  she  gave  full  vent  to  her  fury ; 
then,  recovering  herself,  she  touched  a  bell,  and  said 
haughtily  to  the  servant  who  appeared,  "  Tell  Madam 
the  Countess  to  come  to  me."  She  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  that  she  was  not  alone,  for  she  threw  herself 
into  a  chair  and  sat  gazing  stonily  straight  before  her. 

Angelique  looked  at  me  appealingly ;  she  wished  me 
to  break  the  painful  silence.  "Princess,"  I  said,  "it 
is  useless  to  yield  to  excitement.  You  must  try  to 
calm  yourself.  You  will  need  all  your  coolness  to 
escape." 

"  Escape  !  how  can  I  escape !  "  and  she  started  to  her 
feet  alert  and  active  in  a  moment.  "  Can  I  escape  ? 
Did  any  one  ever  escape  from  their  clutches  ?  Did  any 
one  ever  leave  Sant'  Angelo's  who  once  entered  there  ? 
Oh,  no.  It  is  like  Dante's  hell;  over  it  is  written, 
'  Abandon  all  hope  ye  who  enter  here.'  " 

"If  you  will  be  calm,  we  may  think  of  a  way,"  I 
said. 

"  But  you  tell  me  the  palace  is  watched.  How,  then, 
can  I  escape  ?  " 

"  Princess,"  said  Angelique,  going  to  her,  "  it  is  not 
too  late.  If  you  will  listen  to  us,  we  will  try  to  save 
you." 

"  What  must  I  do  ?  "  she  asked,  looking  despairingly 
from  one  to  the  other. 

"  You  must  leave  Eome  at  once.  There  is  a  train  for 
Naples  to-night.     You  must  go  on  it." 


asam.' 


iL 


:raiA8T. 

d  like  a  brilliant 
n  its  victim, 
seductive  beauty- 
show  the  demon 

'•ent  to  her  fury ; 

a  bell,  and  said 
Bd,  "Tell  Mailam 

seemed  to  have 
3he  threw  herself 
ight  before  her. 
y  ;  she  wished  me 
oess,"  I  said,  "  it 
iTou  must  try  to 
your  coolness  to 

she  started  to  her 
"  Can  I  escape  ? 
Litches  ?  Did  any 
ce  entered  there  ? 
^er   it  is  written, 

ink  of  a  way,"  I 

ched.     How,  then, 

to  her,  "it  is  not 
}  will  try  to  save 

aking  despairingly 

'here  is  a  train  for 


NATITJKA. 


897 


"  Oh,"'  with  a  hard,  cruel  laugh,  "  liow  you  torment 
me  i  one  moment  you  tell  me  that  I  am  caught  like  a 
rat  in  a  trap,  and  the  next  you  say  tliat  I  must  go  to 
Naples.  Most  willingly,  most  gladly  !  only  show  me  the 
way.     Ah,  here  is  the  Countess." 

At  that  moment,  the  large  black-robed  woman  entered 
excitedly.  ".What  is  it  ?  AVliy  are  we  called  from  the 
table  ?  " 

"  Good  Heavens,  madam  !  don't  think  of  your  dinner 
now.  I  am  likely  to  eat  my  next  in  Sant'  Angelo's. 
The  officers  are  waiting  below  to  arrest  me." 

"  Oh,  7non  Dieu  !  "  cried  the  Countess,  sinking  inertly 
into  a  chair.     "  I  feared  it !     I  expected  it !  " 

"  You  feared  nothing,  or  Ave  would  not  have  been  here 
to  be  caught,"  replied  the  Princess,  scornfully.  "Our 
friends  say  that  we  must  leave  Rome  at  once.  Go  and 
tell  my  maid  to  pack  some  things  instantly." 

"  That  is  useless.  Princess.  No  one  can  go  with  you ; 
j'ou  must  go  alone,"  said  Angelique. 

"  Alone !  —  that  is  impossible  ! " 

"  It  is  your  only  chance,  madam,"  I  interrupted, 
"and  you  have  no  time  to  waste  in  idle  orders.  You 
must  leave  everything.  Your  household  can  follow 
you." 

"Very  well.  I  put  myself  in  your  hands.  With 
Angelique  for  my  guardian  angel,  I  shall  be  saved," 
she  said,  suddenly  softening  to  tears. 

"Trust  us,  dear  Princess.  Do  quickly  as  I  tell  you. 
Go  to  your  room  and  put  your  hair  up  quite  plain,  as  I 
do  mine,  and  dress  yourself  in  the  simplest  black  cos- 
tume you  have  —  one  of  your  maid's  will  be  best;  then  I 
will  give  you  my  mantle  and  veil,  and  you  must  leave 
the  palace  with  Mr.   Markland,  and  go  with  him  to 


898 


THE   8TOKY   OF   AN    KNTHU81A8T. 


mama.  After  that,  the  rest  will  be  very  eusil}  accom- 
plished." 

"  Oh,  you  angel !  1  understand  you  now.  You  will 
remain  here  iu  my  place,  and  risk  everything,"  cried 
the  Princess,  clasping  Angelique's  hands  and  kissing 
them  fervently. 

"  Can't  you  see  that  it  is  all  very  simple.  Mr.  Mark- 
land  and  I  have  just  entered.  The  men  below  are  wait- 
ing for  you  to  come  down  in  evening  dress  to  you?; 
carriage.  When  you  pass  out,  they  will  never  sus- 
pect that  it  is  not  the  same  person  who  entered.  It 
is  your  only  hope;  go  quickly,  dear  Princess,  and 
prepare." 

"  How  can  she  go  to  Naples  without  a  maid  or  bag- 
gage ?  "  cried  the  Countess,  aghast. 

"  Money  will  procure  all  I  need  ;  and  you  can  follow 
me  in  the  morning,"  said  the  Princess,  as  she  left  the 
room  with  her  companion. 

In  an  incredibly  short  time  she  returned,  so  changed 
that  I  scarcely  knew  her  —  her  golden  hair  was  plainly 
banded  back  under  a  small  black  bonnet,  and  she  wore 
a  maid's  simple  black  gown.  But  even  in  that  disguise 
she  was  lovely  :  excitement  and  danger  gave  depth  and 
tenderness  to  her  expression;  and  iior  eyes  were  soft 
with  tears.  Angelique  slipped  off  her  long  mantle  and 
veil,  and  the  Princess  donned  them.  The  transforma- 
tion was  complete.  I  should  never  have  discovered  the 
change,  had  I  not  known  of  it. 

"  Come,  now,"  I  said,  encouragingly ;  "  let  us  try  to 
pass  the  guard  below.  If  we  succeed,  the  danger  will 
be  over." 

The  Princess  was  about  to  leave  the  room,  when  she 
thought  of  Ang61ique  left  there  alone.     With  a  sudden 


1A8T. 
easil}   accom- 

low.  You  will 
rything,"  cried 
Is  aud  kissing 

le.  Mr.  Mark- 
below  are  wait- 
dress  to  youv 
irill  never  sus- 
10  entered.  It 
Princess,    and 

a  maid  or  bag- 

yo\i  can  follow 
13  she  left  the 

,ed,  so  changed 
air  was  plainly 
,  and  she  wore 
1  that  disguise 
jave  depth  and 
eyes  were  soft 
ng  mantle  and 
he  transforma- 
discovered  the 

"  let  us  try  to 
he  danger  will 

oom,  when  she 
With  a  sudden 


NATILIKA. 


399 


impulse  of  gratitude  she  turned  back,  and,  drawing  a 
ring  from  her  tinger,  she  pressed  it  into  La  Santa's  hand 
while  she  thanked  her  with  broken  words  and  sobs. 
"  Pray  for  me,"  she  said ;  "  1  need  your  prayers,  for  I 
am  in  the  very  depths  of  misery.  God  will  reward  you 
for  your  goodness.  Angclique,  adieu,  adieu."  Aud 
with  a  lingering  pressure  of  the  hand  and  a  mournful 
glance  from  the  shadow  of  the  black  veil,  she  followed 
me  into  the  brilliantly  lighted  corridor,  and  down  the 
long  flight  of  marble  stairs  where  the  pampered  lackeys 
lounged  and  stared  at  the  sombre  figure  gliding  by, 
never  dreaming  that  the  simple  black  robes  concealed 
their  brilliant  haughty  mistress. 

VII. 

As  we  passed  out  of  the  court,  the  Princess  glanced 
furtively  at  her  carriage,  which  was  waiting  for  her,  the 
coachman  and  footman  sitting  like  statues  on  their  high 
perch. 

The  man  who  paced  back  and  forth  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs  when  we  went  up  was  still  there.  He  glanced  at 
us  as  if  he  would  say,  "  Oh,  I  know  you  are  the  people 
who  entered  a  half-hour  ago.  It  is  not  you  I  am  wait- 
ing for."  I  bowed  to  him  slightly,  and  he  returned  my 
salutation  respectfully. 

I  was  astonished  at  the  Princess'  coolness  ;  for,  while 
■my  heart  was  beating  so  loudly  that  I  feared  it  could  be 
heard,  my  companion  was  as  calm  aud  self-contained  as 
though  she  were  walking  to  her  carriage  on  the  arm  of 
one  of  her  admirers. 

Once  outside  the  court,  I  glanced  around  hurriedly. 
The  other  two  men   were  still  at    their  posts;    aud 


■KM 


400 


THK   STORY   OF   AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


opposite,   in   tlie   sluulow   of  a  door-way,   I   fancied  I 
caught  a  glimpse  of  ii  white  robe. 

"Not  80  fast,"  I  whispered,  as  my  companion  has- 
tened her  steps.  "  Let  us  walk  leisurely  until  we  are 
well  out  of  sight ;  however,  we  can  breathe  freely.  I 
think  the  danger  is  over." 

"  I  shall  not  be  at  ease  until  I  am  outside  of  Rome," 
returned  the  Princess.  "  Had  we  not  better  take  a  car- 
riage and  go  directly  to  the  station  ?  " 

"  Not  for  the  world.  "We  may  be  followed.  Let  us 
walk  leisurely  to  the  r-ipo  lo  Casa,  and  enter  Madam 
Raymond's  apartment ;  .ind,  when  we  are  quite  sure  it 
is  safe,  we  will  take  a  carriage  to  the  station.  We  still 
have  a  half-hour,"  I  said,  looking  at  my  watch  by  a 
street  lamp. 

Madam  Raymond  was  waiting  for  us  in  great  anxiety. 
Her  first  words  were,  "  Thank  God  you  are  back." 
Then,  as  the  Princess  threw  aside  the  heavy  veil,  sh3 
cried,  "  Where  is  ray  child  ?    Where  is  Ang61ique  ?  " 

"  She  i.  safe,  dear  madam,"  replied  the  Princess.  "  The 
Countesb  will  take  care  of  her,  and  bring  her  to  you  as 
soon  as  she  can  do  so  safely.  I  have  told  her  what  to 
do.  When  she  knows  that  I  am  safely  outside  of  Rome, 
she  will  dismiss  my  carriage,  with  the  announcement 
that  I  am  not  going  out  to-night.  I  don't  think  the 
minions  of  this  accursed  government  will  enter  my  apart- 
ment. They  never  do  things  in  that  way.  They  prefer 
to  work  privately  and  secretly ;  they  will  await  another 
opportunity." 

"I  will  go  and  fetch  her  myself,"  cried  Madam  Ray- 
mond, starting  up  excitedly.  "  Who  knows  but  what 
they  may  arrest  her  as  an  accomplice." 

"  My  dear  friend,"  I  urged,  most  earnestly,  "  I  beg  of 


HMWi 


SIAST. 

ay,   I  fancied  I 

companion  bas- 
ely until  we  are 
reathe  freely.     I 

itside  of  Borne," 
better  take  a  car- 

oUowed.  Let  us 
nd  enter  Madam 
are  quite  sure  it 
tatiou.  We  still 
;  my  watch  by  a 

in  great  anxiety, 
you  are   back," 
e  heavy  veil,  sh3 
i  Ang61ique  ?  " 
e  Princess.    "  The 
ring  her  to  you  as 
told  her  what  to 
r  outside  of  Rome, 
;he  announcement 
I  don't  think  the 
ill  enter  my  apart' 
vay.    They  prefer 
rill  await  another 

cried  Madam  Ray- 
knows  but  what 

.rnestly,  "  I  beg  of 


NATILIKA. 


401 


you  to  leave  Ang61ique  where  she  is  until  the  Trincess  is 
safely  out  of  Home.  I  can  assure  you  there  is  no  danger 
for  her.  She  is  too  faithful  to  the  alliance,  and  too 
devout  to  be  suspected.  Your  visit  to  the  palace  might 
excite  suspicion  and  spoil  everything." 

A  half-hour  after,  we  were  driving  rapidly  to  the 
station.  Although  the  Princess  was  thankful  to  have 
escaiied,  she  was  much  depressed  at  the  prospect  of  the 
solitary  journey  before  her. 

In  spite  of  my  knowledge  of  her  true  character,  I 
pitied  her  as  she  clung  trembling  to  my  arm,  while  I 
hurriedly  took  her  ticket  and  conducted  her  into  the 
dimly  lighted  station,  which  was  nearly  empty. 

"Can  madam  have  a  coupe  alone?"  I  asked  of  the 
guard  who  hurried  us  forward,  as  the  train  was  about 
starting. 

"  Si,  sigiwre.  The  coupe  provided  for  ladies  without 
an  escort  is  empty,"  replied  the  guard  as  he  opened  the 
door.     "  There  are  very  few  passengers  to-night." 

She  clung  to  my  hand  for  an  instant,  gave  me  a  wist- 
ful glance  from  her  dark  eyes,  and  a  fervent  "  God  bless 
you,"  and  in  a  moment  her  mournful  ligure  was  gone 
from  my  sight  as  she  glided  away  in  the  night  and 
darkness. 

Like  a  meteor  she  had  flashed  across  the  fashionable 
horizon,  beautiful,  brilliant,  erratic ;  and  like  a  meteor 
she  had  vanished,  extinguished  in  gloom  and  mystery. 

When  I  returned  to  the  Capo  lo  Casa,  I  found  Ang6- 
lique  with  her  mother  and  Mr.  Brent,  in  the  pretty  little 
salon,  excitedly  talking  over  the  events  of  the  evening. 

Mr.  Brent  had  called  on  the  Princess,  as  he  often  did, 
for,  in  spite  of  evil  rumors,  he  admired  her  greatly,  and 
shared  Angfilique's  anxiety.     He  arrived  at  the  palace 


t; 


402 


THK   BTOUY   OK    AN    KNTIIUHIAHT. 


shortly  after  she  had  left  iu  hor  successfnl  (Usguise,  and 
finding  La  Hanta  there,  he  took  charge  of  her  and  brought 
her  safely  to  her  mother. 

"  You  are  a  little  heroine,  a;*  well  as  a  saint,"  said  Mr. 
Hrent,  delightedly.  "If  you  hadn't  got  her  off,  she 
would  have  lodged  in  Sant'  Angtdo's  to-night.  I  know 
that  bull-dog  watching  the  stairway.  Ho  never  h-ts 
anything  go  that  he  onoe  gets  hi.s  teeth  on.  Oli,  this 
cursed  suspicious  government,  that  imprisons  women 
because  they  are  beautiful  and  fascinating.  Poor,  pretty 
Princess,  she  was  lovely  to  look  at,  and  I  enjoyed  talk- 
ing with  her,  if  she  was  wicked.  She  is  gone,  and  we 
shall  never  see  her  like  again.  Felix,  are  you  sure  she 
got  safely  off  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes ;  I  saw  the  train  start.  It  was  very  quiet  in 
the  station,  there  were  few  passengers,  and  no  confusion." 

"Well,  thank  Heaven,  she  got  away,"  returned  Mr. 
Brent,  with  a  profound  sigh  of  satisfaction. 

"  I  echo  your  expression  of  gratitude,  devoutly,"  ex- 
claimed Madam  Raymond.  "We  are  well  rid  of  her. 
She  has  done  mischief  enough." 

"Oh,  mama,"  pleaded  Ang61ique,  "don't  be  too 
severe.  In  spite  of  her  faults,  there  is  much  good  in  her. 
1  shall  pray  all  through  Holy  Week  for  her.  I  shall 
make  her  a  subject  of  special  prayer.    Her  soul  must 

be  saved." 

"Well,  my  darling,"  returned  her  mother,  tenderly, 
"  I  would  rather  have  you  interest  yourself  in  her  soul 
than  in  her  body.     There  is  less  danger." 

"  I  could  never  have  carried  out  my  plan  without  your 
help,"  and  Angelique  turned  to  me  with  a  look  of  grati- 
tude, that  reconciled  me  to  the  part  I  had  taken.  "  Oh, 
my  friend,  you  have  given  me  many  happy  hours  !  " 


. 


Mto 


HIAHT. 

ul  disguise,  and 
her  and  brought 

saint/'  said  Mr. 
jot  her  off,  slie 
-iiif^ht  I  know 
Ho  novcr  k-ts 
til  on.  Oil,  this 
aprisons  women 
ig.  Poor,  pretty 
I  enjoyed  talk- 
is  gone,  and  we 
ire  you  sure  she 

fus  very  quiet  in 
id  no  confusion." 
r,"  returned  Mr. 
ion. 

le,  devoutly,"  ex- 
well  rid  of  her. 

"  don't    be    too 

nuch  good  in  her. 

For  her,     I  shall 

Her  soul  must 

mother,  tenderly, 

rself  in  her  soul 

r." 

)lan  without  your 

h  a  look  of  grati- 

lad  taken.     "Oh, 

,ppy  hours ! " 


NATIIilKA. 


40.i 


"My  dear  Ang/dique,  I  did  it  for  you.  Tloase  don't 
thank  me;  I  have  no  good-will  toward  the  I'rincess. 
Hhe  is  a  wonian  in  trouble ;  as  such.  I  would  try  to  help 
her.  (Jo.l  knows  I  hope  she  will  never  cross  my  path 
again,"  I  exclaimed,  bitterly. 

"Oh,  you  are  very  hard,"  said  Ang^lique,  sorrowfully. 
"  I  am  sure  she  is  i.ot  ungrateful.  Look  at  this  beauti- 
ful gift,"  and  she  hcl.l  out  her  slender  hand,  on  which 
sparkled  the  ring  given  her  by  the  Princess  -  a  magniH- 
cent  sapphire  set  with  diamonds. 

"To-morrow,  I  shall  go  to  Sant'  Agostino's,  and  offer 
it  to  the  Virgin,  and  pray  to  her  to  take  the  poor  I'rin- 
cess  under  her  special  protection." 

"  My  child,  don't  do  anything  so  foolish,"  cried  Mr. 
Brent.     "  It  is  a  gem  of  g,  jat  value.     Keep  it  for  your- 
self." 
"  Oh,  I  could  not  do  that." 

"No,  indeed,"  interrupted  Madam  Raymond.  "I 
should  not  like  Ang^lique  to  accept  such  a  costly  gift 
from  the  Princess  Natilika.  It  will  be  much  better  to 
bestow  it  as  a  votive  offering." 

"I  am  glad  you  think  as  I  do,  mama,"  returned  Ang6- 
lique.  "  Poor  Princess,  I  hope  the  Virgin  will  protect 
her  to-night.  I  feel  as  though  she  is  in  great  danger," 
she  added,  with  a  far-off,  dreamy  look. 

"  Pray,  don't  make  yourself  unhappy  over  her,  my 
dear  Angolique  ;  she  is  not  worthy  of  so  much  anxiety," 
I  said,  almost  impatiently,  as  I  wished  them  good- 
night. 

The  next  evening,  after  a  hard  day's  work  on  my  pic- 
ture, I  was  leisurely  sipping  ray  after-dinner  coffee  when 
Mr.  Brent  rushed  in  excitedly,  with  a  copy  of  the  Gior- 
nale  di  Roma  in  his  hand. 


i 


! 


404 


THE   8TOKV   OF   AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


"  My  dear  fellow,"  he  cried,  with  white,  trembling  lips, 
*•  here  is  awful  news !  horrible,  frightful ! " 

"  What  is  it  ?  "    I  could  hardly  control  myself  enough 
to  speak,  so  many  fears  crowded  into  my  mind. 

"She  is  dead."  '  .■'■"'' 

■   "  Who  ?" 

"  The  Princess  Natilika." 

"  How  ?  where  ?  "  I  stammered. 

"Hear  this!"  and  Mr.  Brent  unfolded  the  journal 
with  trembling  hands  and  read :  — 

" '  It  is  with  regret  that  we  are  obliged  to  record  one  of 
the  most  mysterious  and  startling  tragedies  that  have 
occurred  within  the  Pontifical  States  for  many  years. 
The  particulars  of  the  sad  affair,  as  far  as  we  can  learn 
by  telegraph,  are  as  follows  :  Last  night  just  as  the  9  P. 
M.  train  for  Naples  was  leaving  this  city,  a  gentleman 
and  lady  drove  swiftly  up  to  the  station  in  a.  fiacre.  The 
lady  was  dressed  in  black,  and  closely  veiled.  After  a 
hurried  farewell  to  her  escort,  she  entered  a  coupe  alone, 

"  *  The  guard  closed  and  locked  the  door,  and  the  train 
left  immediately.  This  morning,  when  the  guard  opened 
the  door  of  the  coupi^,  at  Ceprano,  the  last  station  on  the 
papal  frontier,  he  was  horrified  at  seeing  the  lady  lying 
lifeless  on  the  fioor  of  the  carriage.  On  raising  her,  he 
discovered  that  she  had  met  her  death  at  the  hands  of 
an  assassin,  who  had  stabbed  her  to  the  heart,  evidently 
killing  her  instantly.  There  was  no  disorder,  no  indica- 
tion of  a  struggle,  anl  no  trace  of  the  murderer ;  and 
robbery  could  not  have  been  the  motive,  as  the  lady's 
purse,  which  contained  a  large  sum  of  money,  was  found 
safe  in  her  pocket.  It  is  supposed  that  the  assassin 
entered  the  coujie  before  the  train  left  the  station  and 
concealed  himself  under  the  seat;  that  he  committed  the 


5IAST, 

?,  trembling  lii)s, 
!" 

il  myself  enough 
I  mind. 


led  the  journal 

i  to  record  one  of 
jedies  that  have 
for  many  years, 
as  we  can  leani 
t  just  as  the  9  V. 
ity,  a  gentleman 
in  a.  fiacre.  The 
veiled.  After  a 
ed  a  coupe  alone, 
3or,  and  the  train 
the  guard  opened 
ist  station  on  tlu? 
ig  the  lady  lying 
n  raising  her,  he 
L  at  the  hands  of 
!  heart,  evidently 
sorder,  no  indica- 
e  murderer;  and 
ve,  as  the  lady's 
Qoney,  was  found 
hat  the  assassin 
t  the  station  and 
he  committed  the 


T 


NATILIKA. 


405 


horrible  deed  while  the  train  was  in  motion  and  the 
lady  sleeping,  and  escaped  by  the  window,  which  was 
open. 

"  *  The  only  clew  to  the  mystery  is  the  fact  that  a  man 
in  the  robe  of  a  Dominican  monk  took  a  second-class 
ticket  for  Naples,  and  entered  a  second-class  carriage. 
When  the  passengers  were  examined,  the  monk  was  not 
among  them.  The  identity  of  the  lady  has  not  yet  been 
established.  The  driver  of  the  yia<re  has  been  discov- 
ered and  examined,  but  his  testimony  throws  no  light 
on  the  sad  affair.  His  passengers  were  unknown  to 
him.  They  stopped  him  on  the  Capo  lo  Casa,  and  re- 
quested him  to  drive  them  as  quickly  as  possible  to  the 
station.  The  gentleman  paid  him  and  entered  the  sta- 
tion with  the  lady,  and  he  saw  no  more  of  them.  So  far 
this  is  all  that  is  known,  and  the  sad  tragedy  remains 
enshrouded  in  profound  mystery.'  " 

I  was  looking  over  Mr.  Brent's  shoulder  as  he  read, 
and  when  the  paper  fell  from  his  nerveless  fingers  and 
he  looked  at  me  with  mute  inquiry,  I  could  only  falter 
out,  "  Who  could  have  done  it  ?  " 

■    "Who?     Why,    that    cursed    penitent,    that    fiend, 
that  spy,  who  has  been  following  her  all  winter." 

"  The  Saccone  ?  "  I  gasped.  "  My  God !  is  it  possi- 
ble ?  "  Then  I  recovered  myself  instantly :  no  one,  not 
even  Mr.  Brent,  should  share  my  suspicion,  and  said,  "  If 
he  were  a  government  spy,  what  motive  had  he  for  fol- 
lowing her  and  taking  her  life  ?  " 

"The  devil!  he  was  no  government  spy,"  said  Mr. 
Brent,  savagely ;  "a  discarded  lover,  more  likely,  who  has 
got  his  revenge  at  last.  By  Heavens  !  a  man  must  have 
fearful  wrongs  to  avenge,  to  lay  murderous  hands  on  a 
woman  with  such  a  face." 


semaissmk^'^jmimmiiL.-* 


406 


THE  STORY   OP   AN  ENTHUSIAST. 


"Yes,"  I  repeated,  stupidly,  "fearful  wrongs  to 
avenge," 

"  By  Jove !  he  must  have  had  a  heart  of  stone,  who 
wouldn't  melt  under  a  look  from  those  eyes.  Poor, 
pretty  Natilika !  no  wonder  she  was  sad  when  you  left 
her." 

"  What  ought  I  to  do  ?  "  I  asked,  weakly ;  "  ought  I 
to  show  myself  in  the  matter  ?  " 

"No,  certainly  not.  You  can  do  her  no  good  now, 
and  it  might  cause  you  no  end  of  trouble.  Besides,  it's 
not  well  to  get  mixed  up  with  an  affair  of  that  kind  here, 
where  people  are  so  suspicious.  I  have  been  to  the 
Conti  Palace.  The  servants  there  know  nothing.  The 
Countess  left  this  morning  to  join  the  Princess  in  Naples. 
She  will  learn  the  sad  news  on  the  way,  and  to-morrow  it 
will  be  known  publicly  that  the  Princess  Natilika  was 
the  victim  of  the  mysterious  tragedy." 

"  And  the  assassin !  —  do  you  think  they  will  discover 
him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  in  all  probability.  They  ferret  things  out  here 
very  easily,  thanks  to  the  system  of  espionage  carried 
on  by  the  goTernment.  But  I'm  thinking  of  that  poor 
child  in  the  Capo  lo  Casa ;  she  will  be  fretting  her  heart 
out  over  this." 

"  Yes,  Ang^lique  will  feel  as  though  she  sent  her  to 
her  death,"  I  replied,  absently,  for  I  was  not  thinking  of 
the  Princess,  nor  of  La  Santa  — only  of  Polonse,  unfor- 
tunate Polonse. 


. 


VIII. 

A  MONTH  has    passed  since  the  Princess  Natilika 
vanished  like  a  nieteor  in  gloom  and  darkness,  and  Eome 


Kctu'w^^i^-" 


JIA8T. 

■ful    wrongs    to 

rt  of  stone,  who 
•se  eyes.  Poor, 
I  when  you  left 

sakly ;  "  ought  I 

i 

(r  no  good  now, 
le.  Besides,  it's 
f  that  kind  here, 
ive  been  to  the 
w  nothing.  The 
■incess  in  Naples, 
and  to-morrow  it 
ess  Natilika  was 

hey  will  discover 

t  things  out  here 
sspionage  carried 
ing  of  that  poor 
'retting  her  heart 

she  sent  her  to 
IS  not  thinking  of 
)f  Polonse,  unfor- 


NATIUKA. 


407 


'rincess  Natilika 
rkness,  and  Eome 


has  not  yet  done  talking  of  the  terrible  tragedy,  nor  of 
wondering  who  tlio  assassin  could  be,  and  what  motive 
he  had,  and  why  the  Princess  left  Rome  so  suddenly, 
and  who  the  gentleman  was  that  escorted  her  so 
secretly  to  the  station  and  left  her  to  make  that  fatal 
journey  alone,  all  of  which  speculations  I,  sitting  most 
of  the  time  in  my  studio  working  feverishly  on  my  pic- 
ture, take  no  part  in  outwardly,  but  inwardly  I  am 
intensely  alive  to  all  that  concerns  that  terrible  affair. 

Madam  Raymond,  Angelique,  and  Mr.  Brent  are 
equally  reticent,  and  no  one  guesses  that  we  know  any 
more  than  the  public  concerning  the  cause  of  Natilika's 

last  journey. 

Every  evening,  when  I  take  up  the  Giornale  di  Roma, 
I  feel  a  cold  chill  pass  over  me ;  and  my  blood  does  not 
flow  freely  until  I  have  looked  over  its  columns  and 
assured  myself  that  so  far  the  midnight  assassin  has  not 
been  discovered ;  and  I  never  go  out  —  morning,  noon, 
or  night  — that  I  do  not  look  around  me  nervously,  to 
see  if  I  can  discover  the  white  robe  of    the  penitent, 
following  in    my  wake,  or  peering  at    me  from    his 
ghastly  sockets.     It  is   true,  I   see  them  continually, 
passing  up  and  down  the  streets,  thrusting  their  alms- 
boxes  into  the  faces  of  the  passers,  and  rattling  them 
fiendishly  under  the  very  noses  of  the  unwary.     But 
my  penitent  is  not  among  them;  of  that  I  am  sure. 
Yesterday  one  entered  my  studio,  and  my  heart  stood 
still  when  I  caught  the  first  glimpse  of  him.    However, 
I  soon  recovered  myself  when  I  saw  that  he  was  short 
and  stumpy,  and  his  bead-like  eyes  had  none  of  the 
sombre  gloom  that  looked  at  me  from  the  mask  of  the 

other. 
I  feel  as  though  I  was  the  possessor  of  a  secret  that  I 


!  I 


1 


T 


408 


THE  STORY  OF  AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


must  guard  witli  my  life.  I  troiuble  if  any  one  men- 
tions the  mysterious  Saccone  in  connection  with  the 
crime.  Naturally,  those  avIio  knew  of  the  grim,  tragic 
figure  that  haunted  the  Princess  so  long  fixed  the  dark 
deed  upon  him.  To  every  one  else  he  is  only  a  figure, 
a  spectre,  a  shadow,  but  to  me  he  is  a  man  whom  I 
knew  and  loved,  and  who  had  bitter  wrongs  to  avenge. 

Sometimes  I  fear  1  may  betray  my  secret  in  my 
sleep— that  the  walls  may  have  ears  and  hear  me 
breathe  his  name.  I  am  restless  and  feverish,  and  con- 
stantly in  a  wearing  state  of  anxiety.  And  this  is  not 
my  only  trouble.  —  Dark  clouds  hover  over  me,  that  may 
descend  at  any  moment.  Sad  news  from  England,  my 
Dorethea  is  far  from  well. 

Edith  writes  hopefully,  but  I  can  tell,  by  an  undertone 
of  sadness  in  her  letters,  that  it  is  more  serious  than  she 
says.  It  is  more  than  a  year  since  I  hurt  my  poor  dar- 
ling so  cruelly,  since  I  plunged  her  into  disappointment 
and  sorrow;  and  she  kept  up  bravely  at  first.  The 
strong,  proud  nature  has  held  out,  but  the  frail  body  is 
giving  way ;  I  know  it  all.  I  know  her  resolute  little 
heart,  patient  and  uncomplaining,  so  devoted  to  her 
father,  so  determined  to  obey  him  even  if  she  suffers 
martyrdom. 

Lady  Hardmoor  is  in  London,  enjoying  a  brilliant 
season,  while  his  lordship  and  Dorethea  remain  at  the 
Hall.  A  week  or  two  ago,  I  saw,  in  the  Court  Journal, 
the  marriage  of  Count  von  Hardenburg  and  the  Honor- 
able Mary  Augusta  Claverhouse.  Plain  but  good  May  has 
stepped  in  to  set  my  heart  at  rest  forever  on  that  subject, 
as  well  as  to  replenish  the  empty  purse  of  the  German ; 
a  wise  arrangement  for  him,  but  a  cruel  wrong  to  her. 
Sometimes  I  feel  like  rushing  away  to  England,  to 


T 


HAST. 

f  any  one  nien- 
iction  with  the 
he  grim,  tragic 

fixed  the  dark 
s  only  a  figure,   j 
a  man  whom  I 
ugs  to  avenge. 
y   secret  in  my   ' 
3   and  hear  me 
verish,  and  con- 

And  this  is  not 
,'er  me,  that  may 
)m  England,  my 

by  an  undertone 
serious  than  she 
irt  my  poor  dar- 

disappointment 
f  at  first.  The 
he  frail  body  is 
ler  resolute  little 

devoted  to  her 
in  if  she  suffers 

ying  a  brilliant 
?a  remain  at  the 
e  Court  Journal, 
f  and  the  Honor- 
but  good  May  has 
1'  on  that  subject, 
e  of  thfi  German ; 
I  wrong  to  her. 
y  to  England,  to 


NATILIKA. 


409 


throw  myself  at  Dorethea's  feet,  never  to  leave  her 
until  she  forgives  me ;  to  implore  and  plead  with  Lord 
Hardmoor ;  to  compel  him,  by  the  very  strength  of  my 
passion  and  despair,  to  forget  the  past  and  to  take  me 
into  his  favor  again. 

But  Edith  and  Walter  both  assure  me  that  it  would 
be  premature  and  useless.  They  say  that  I  must  first 
accomplish  something;  first  convince  them  that  I  am  a 
rational,  capable  being. 

For  this  reason  I  am  working  with  fearful  energy  on 
my  picture.  It  is  a  grand  conception.  My  master  and 
all  my  friends  encourage  me  to  press  forward  to  the  end. 
They  say  it  will  make  me  famous,  that  I  have  never 
painted  before,  that  I  am  possessed  with  a  divine  fury,  a 
living  fire.  That  may  all  be  true ;  but  th^y  do  not  know 
what  I  am  working  for.  It  is  not  for  fame,  honor,  or 
wealth.  It  is  for  hope  —  hope.  It  is  to  keep  alive  this 
small  fire,  that  sometimes  burns  so  feebly  that  it  is  well 
nigh  extinguished ;  and,  without  its  saving  light,  I  can 
neither  live  nor  labor. 

I  have  received  a  flattering  offer  from  Russia  for  my 
Raphael,  and  still  another  from  France.  For  Dorethea 
I  will  give  it  up  freely,  willingly.  But  I  cannot  do 
without  the  companionship  of  this  wonderful  picture 
until  I  have  her  love  to  take  its  place.  Nothing  else  will 
tempt  me.  On  the  day  when  Lord  Hardmoor  tells  me  I 
am  forgiven,  I  will  accept  the  offer  of  the  French  govern- 
ment ;  and  the  picture  will  pass  out  of  my  hands  for- 


ever. 


I  have  just  returned  from  a  visit  to  the  Capo  lo  Casa, 
where  I  had  a  long  talk  with  Angelique.  She  was 
alone,  her  mother  being  absent  on  a  visit  to  a  friend  j 


pgaai!rfiaBa«aiMS(MiiiiHg3« 


T 


410 


THE   STOBY   OF   AN    ENTHUSIAST. 


and  our  conversation  was  confidential  and  sad  in  tlio 
extreme.  She  has  just  received  a  letter  and  a  package 
from  Camille.  His  mother  died  some  weeks  ago,  and  he 
is  in  Venice.  She  read  me  the  letter,  and  a  more  hope- 
less, heart-broken  epistle  it  was  never  my  lot  to  hear. 
One  thing  strikes  me  as  strange.  From  the  beginning 
to  the  end  of  this  long  letter  Camille  never  mentions 
Natilika.  He  must  have  heard  of  her  saxl  fate.  All 
Italy  —I  may  say  all  Europe  — has  heard  of  it ;  and  yet 
he  never  mentions  her. 

One  passage  in  the  letter  touched  me  deeply,  "  A  man 
can  never  be  utterly  hopeless  and  abandoned  while  his 
mother  lives,  — while  he  has  her  patient  heart  to  flee 
to  — her  faithful  love,  her  unfailing  confidence.  My 
mother  was  all  that  held  me  to  life ;  and  with  her  I  have 
lost  all.  My  last  frail  mooring  to  time  is  broken,  and 
I  drift,  God  only  knows  whither." 

Angdlique  wept  while  she  read  the  sad  lines,  and  my 
own  eyes  were  not  entirely  dry.     After  a  few  moments 
she  folded  the  letter,  and,  leaning  her  cheek  in  the  palm 
of  her  hand  where  the  letter  lay,  she  remained  thought- 
ful and  silent  for  some  time.     Then  she  looked  at  me 
with  a  faint  smile,  and  said,  "  Dear  Camille,  I  understand 
now  why  I  love  him  — why  I  always  loved  him.    My 
friend,  I  want  to  tell  you  something  which  I  can't  let 
mama  know,  for  fear  it  might  pain  her.    Papa  loved 
Camille's  mother  long  ago  before  she  married  Count  de 
Br^court.     He  was  a  poor  young  painter,  and  she  was 
the  daughter  of  a  rich  noble,  yet  they  loved  each  other 
devotedly  and  tenderly.     After  her  death,  Camille  found 
a  package  of  papa's  letters,  and  a  miniature  of.hun,kept 
faithfully  through  all  these  years,  and  he  has  sent  them 
to  me.    Such  noble,  tender  letters,  so  resigned  and  par 


T 


id  sail  in  the 
tiul  a  package 
ks  ago,  and  he 
a  more  hope- 
y  lot  to  hear, 
the  beginning 
ever  mentions 
sad  fate.  All 
[  of  it ;  and  yet 

36  ply,  "  A  man 
jned  while  his 
t  heart  to  flee 
jnlidence.  My 
nrith  her  I  have 
is  broken,  and 

il  lines,  and  my 
a  few  moments 
sek  in  the  palm 
lained  thojight- 
,e  looked  at  me 
le,  I  understand 
oved  him.    My 
hich  I  can't  let 
er.    Papa  loved 
irried  Count  de 
er,  and  she  was 
3ved  each  other 
1,  Camille  found 
ure  of.  him,  kept 
le  has  sent  them 
resigned  and  par 


NATIMKA. 


411 


tient,  so  like  papa.  Is  it  not  all  very  clear  now  why  I 
felt  such  an  interest,  such  an  impression  of  being  in 
some  way  connected  with  hira,  when  I  first  saw  him  ? 
The  mysterious  bond  of  the  soul  runs  through  it  all. 
The  heart's  history  repeats  itself.  They  loved  and  were 
parted.  We,  their  children,  meet,  and  straightway  we 
recognize  an  influence  that  draws  us  together.  His 
better  nature  understands  my  soul,  but  the  worldly,  the 
base,  draws  him  away,  and  our  inherited  love  cannot  be 
perfect  on  earth ;  but  beyond,  in  eternity,  he  will  be 
mine.  He  must  be  saved.  T  must  save  him  for  myself. 
The  earth  spirit,  the  evil  influ^nt^e  is  removed  from  his 
path,  and  it  is  not  too  late  for  him  to  enter  the  higher 
life  here  on  earth.  If  he  can  struggle  through  these 
dark  clouds,  the.se  dense  vapors  that  enshroud  his  soul, 
all  hereafter  will  be  clear  and  beautiful.  My  friend,  can 
you  not  see  that  I  have  a  holy  mission  to  perform  ? 
that  I  must  devote  my  days  and  nights  to  prayers  and 
penance  for  Camille's  soul  ?  He  is  in  danger  of  sinking 
in  these  black  waters  of  doubt  and  despair,  and  only 
prayer  can  save  him.  I  bless  God  that  I  live  to  pray 
for  him." 

Sweet  saint,  if  God  hears  the  young  ravens  when  they 
cry,  how  much  more  will  he  listen  to  you  in  your  pitiful 
need. 

■  •  •  •  • 

How  dark,  how  mournful,  how  tragic !  My  master 
sends  for  me  ;  I  hasten  to  the  Villa  Medici.  He  and 
Madam  are  weeping  together  over  a  letter  from  M. 
Henri,  a  former  pensonnaire,  who  is  living  in  Venice. 
My  master  gives  me  the  letter  with  a  trembling  hand, 
and  I  read  the  following  :  — 

"  I  write  to  you  in  the  deepest  sorrow.     Our  friend, 


412 


THE   STORY   OF  AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


our  poor  Camille,  is  no  more.     While  I  say  this  the  tears 
blind  me.    It  is  so  sudden,  so  dreadful,  that  I  can  hardly 
understand  it.     He  was  drowned  here  in  Venice,  where 
his  evil  destiny  led  him.     For  some  time  he  had  been  in 
the  habit  of  bathing  in  the  sea  at  early  morning  with  two 
of  his  friends.     On  this  fatal  day,  he  ran  swiftly  and  buoy- 
antly before  them,  and,  with  alight  laugh  and  jest,  sprang 
into  the  water  and  disappeared  instantly.     His  friends, 
seeing  that  he  did  not  rise  to  the  surface,  plunged  in  after 
him,  but  could  find  no  trace  of  him.     A  few  hours  after, 
the  cruel  waves  threw  him  dead  on  the  shore.     It  is  im- 
possible to  tell  how  unhappy  I  am,  I  loved  him  so,  and 
he   was  worthy   of  all   love.     I   am  desolate,   furious 
against  fate,  whicli  hastens  to  destroy  all  that  is  best, 
while  so  much  that  is  worthless  and  useless  is  spared. 
He  was  so  good,  so  honorable,  so  generous,  so  favored  by 
fortune,  and,  above  all,  so  happy,  and  endowed  with  such 
a  distinguished  talent  and  such  success  in  the  profession 
he  had  chosen.     In  short,  you  know  and  love  him,  and 
regret  him,  as  we  do." 

I  could  read  no  more.  I  laid  the  letter  down,  and 
walked  silently  away. 

It  is  over ;  the  last  act  of  the  Greek  tragedy  is  finished. 
Nemesis  has  done  her  work.  The  day  of  doom  has 
sounded,  and  Camille's  soul  has  gone  to  meet  hers  in  the 
cold  shad  es  of  death.  Almost  the  last  words  I  ever  heard 
from  his  lips  ring  in  my  ears  like  a  funeral  knell.  "  I 
will  not  live  to  regret."  His  mother  dead,  that  fatal 
love  gone  out  in  blackness  and  darkness  forever,  what 
was  left  for  him,  with  none  of  La  Santa's  holy  faith  to 
cling  to,  but  to  run  lightly  and  joyously,  in  the  flush  of 
early  morning,  down  to  that  sunlit  Venetian  sea,  and 
seek  oblivion  in  its  blue  waves !  .  .  . 


T 


AST. 

Y  this  the  tears 
lat  I  can  hardly 

Venice,  where 
lie  had  been  in 
)rning  with  two 
viftly  and  buoy- 
md  jest,  sprang 
^  His  friends, 
)lunged  in  after 
'ew  hours  after, 
hore.  It  is  im- 
ired  him  so,  and 
jsohite,  furious 
all  that  is  best, 
jeless  is  spared. 
8,  so  favored  by 
owed  with  such 
a  the  profession 
d  love  him,  and 

stter  down,  and 

Lgedy  is  finished. 

Y  of  doom  has 
aeet  hers  in  the 
•rds  I  ever  heard 
neral  knell.     "  I 

dead,  that  fatal 
ss  forever,  what 
la's  holy  faith  to 
r,  in  the  flush  of 
enetian  sea,  and 


T 


NATILIKA. 


418 


Oamille's  sad  fate  is  a  terril)le  blow  to  Angelique.  She 
never  knew  how  hiiman  her  love  was  until  death  stepped 
in  and  claimed  the  mortal  part  of  him.  Now  the  narrow 
creed  of  her  religion  tortures  her  —  can  he  be  saved,  can 
her  tears  and  prayers  avail  aught  with  God,  now  that  he 
is  no  longer  on  earth  ?  She  weeps  and  prays  night  and 
day  for  him,  and  her  life  is  one  long  penance  for  the 
salvation  of  a  soul  tliat  she  thinks  her  earthly  love  might 
have  saved,  where  now  regret  and  anguish  can  avail 
nothing. 

Not  long  ago  she  was  looking  ovep  some  engravings  of 
famous  pictures,  and  accidentally  came  upon  that  one  of 
Francesca  di  Itimini  and  Paolo,  taken  from  Dante's  de- 
scription of  the  unfortunate  lovers  whirling  through 
brown  air,  linked  together  in  eternal  misery.  The  poor 
girl  covered  her  eyes,  and  turned  away  ghastly  pale. 
"  Oh,  ray  God  !"  she  sighed,  "  are  they  together  there  ? 
How,  then,  can  his  soul  be  saved  ?  " 


\ 


wtt^f 


T 


PART  VII. 
SANCTUARY. 


T 


PART  VII. 


BANOTUAKY. 


I. 

It  is  nearly  two  yoars  since  I  brought  back  the  wreck 
of  myself  to  Home.  During  that  time  I  have  somewliat 
repaired  anil  furbished  up  my  exterior  man,  though  I 
still  look  hopelessly  old  and  vorn.  My  health  is  fairly 
good,  only,  at  times,  nvy  throbbing  heart  complains  bit- 
terly that  it  has  so  little  sustenance  to  live  on,  and  my 
weary  brain  aches  with  weary  thinking  and  useless  ex- 
pectation. I  am  always  waiting,  looking,  hoping  for 
letters  from  England.  My  life  is  now  centred  on  two 
objects  —  my  picture,  which  is  approaching  completion, 
and  the  letters  which  I  receive  from  England. 

Walter  and  Edith  are  very  good,  and  write  to  me  as 
often  as  I  can  reasonably  expect  them  to.  And  occa- 
sionally their  letters  contain  little  fragments  of  encour- 
agement :  "  Dorethea  spoke  of  you  to-day  " ;  or,  "  Doro- 
thea asked  il'  your  picture  will  be  exhibited  in  London  " ; 
or,  "  Dorothea's  face  brightened  when  I  spoke  of  you." 
—  Such  little  sentences  are  nothing,  in  themselves,  but 
the  tiniest  crumbc  of  hope,  yet  they  keep  life  in  a  starv- 
ing heart. 

Lately,  I  have  had  a  new  inspiration,  which  has  led  to 
my  doing  a  thing  that  I  never  thought  to  do.  I  have 
written  to  Lady  Hardmoor.  She  is  the  mother  of  a 
beautiful  boy,  and  Lord  Hardmoor  is  happy  again  in  his 

417 


« 


T 


418 


THE  STORY   OF  AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


domestic  relations.  Her  heart  is  doubtless  softened  and 
purified  by  the  blessed  influence  of  rnotherhood,  and  she 
must  have  regained  her  old  power  over  her  husband. 
Therefore  I  have  appealed  to  her  to  help  me. 

Dorethea's  health  is  failing,  and  every  day  that  we  arft 
parted  lessens  her  chances  of  recovery.  I  know  that 
Edith  has  never  told  nie  the  worst ;  but,  as  near  as  I  can 
judge  from  what  she  has  said,  Dorethea's  illness  is 
caused  by  some  affection  of  the  heart.  With  a  calm, 
happy  life,  she  may  live  many  years ;  but,  with  this  con- 
stant cankering  care  and  weary  hopeless  waiting,  her 
frail  organization  cannot  bear  this  strain.  They  must 
see  that  she  is  slowly  and  silently  dying,  and,  if  her 
father  loves  her,  how  can  he  sacrifice  her  to  his  pride 
and  anger?  Long  ago  I  hurubled  myself,  as  much  as 
was  consistent  with  any  degree  of  self-respect,  and  wrote 
to  him  for  my  darling's  sake,  earnestly  begging  him  to 
allow  Dorethea  to  communicate  with  me,  and  to  give  me 
a  little  hope  for  the  future.  But  no  reply  came,  though 
I  waited  and  looked  for  it  with  the  consuming  anxiety 
that  one  doomed  to  death  would  hope  for  a  reprieve. 

How  the  trite  saying  of  drowning  men  clutching  at 
straws  repeats  itself  over  and  over  in  my  case,  and  the 
last  straw  is  Lady  Hardmoor.  God  grant  that  she  may 
have  the  power  to  soften  her  husband's  obdurate  heart. 
I  think  my  letter  will  impress  her ;  she  has  not  a  bad 
heart,  and  she  cannot  fail  to  be  moved  by  the  earnest- 
ness of  my  appeal. 

I  am  counting  the  days  that  must  elapse  before  I  can 
hope  for  an  answer.  In  the  meantime  I  am  possessed 
with  a  spirit  of  restlessness.  I  cannot  remain  within. 
In  this  bright,  still  autumn  weather,  I  walk  for  miles 
and  miles  over  the  Campagna ;  sometimes,  after  a  hard 


m 


51  AST. 

jss  softened  and 
lerhood,  and  she 
r  her  husband. 
I  me. 

day  that  we  arft 
T.     I  know  that 

as  near  as  I  can 
;hea's  illness  is 
With  a  calm, 
it,  with  this  con- 
ess  waiting,  her 
lin.  They  must 
ing,  and,  if  her 
lier  to  his  pride 
self,  as  much  as 
ispect,  and  wrote 

begging  him  to 
!,  and  to  give  me 
jly  came,  though 
nsuming  anxiety 
)r  a  reprieve, 
nen  clutching  at 
ny  case,  and  the 
mt  that  she  may 
;  obdurate  heart, 
le  has  not  a  bad 
,  by  the  earuest- 

ipse  before  I  can 
»  I  am  possessed 
t  remain  within. 
[  walk  for  miles 
ues,  after  a  hard 


T 


SANCTUARY. 


4in 


day's  tramp,  I  take  refuge  for  the  night  in  some  little 
osteria  among  the  hills,  or  in  the  rude  hut  of  a  shep- 
herd, and  return  to  Rome  the  next  day,  weary  but 
calm. 

This  rapid  motion  seems  the  only  relief  from  my  too 
constant  anxiety,  the  only  relief  from  myself.  Strange 
to  say,  I  am  losing  all  relish  for  the  society  of  my  fellow- 
men.  I  do  not  like  to  go  where  people  are  happy. 
Paul  and  Laura  are  a  perpetual  reproach  to  me  in  their 
quiet  domestic  bliss ;  and,  to  add  to  my  suffering,  they 
have  a  sweet  little  girl,  some  three  months  old.  Tliey 
insisted  on  my  naming  her,  and  what  should  I  select 
but  the  one  name  in  all  the  world  that  I  love  best,  the 
quaint,  old-fashioned  name  of  Dorethea.  Now  that  I 
have  given  the  child  that  precious  name,  I  regret  it ;  for, 
every  time  I  hear  it,  it  pierces  me  to  the  heart,  and  the 
little  creature  has  fair  hair  and  blue  eyes,  and  I  know 
when  she  is  older  she  will  remind  me  still  more  of  my 
lost  love.  Sometimes  she  clutches  my  finger  with  her 
little,  soft,  warm  hand,  and  smiles  in  my  face  ;  then  my 
heart  almost  opens  to  her,  but  I  close  it  resolutely  —  no 
other  love  shall  ever  enter  there.  The  one  love  of  my 
life  fills  it,  to  the  exclusion  of  all  others. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brent  have  gone  to  England,  to  remain 
a  year.  My  dear  master  and  madam  have  returned  to 
Paris,  and  a  stranger  has  succeeded  him  at  the  French 
Academy.     Our  little  circle  is  greatly  narrowed. 

Since  Camille's  death,  La  Santa  devotes  herself  more 
than  ever  to  good  works,  to  prayers  and  penance.  She 
is  a  religieuse  in  all  but  name.  She  spends  much  of  her 
time  in  retirement,  praying  for  the  soul  of  Camille,  and 
wears  as  her  constant  dress  the  black  robe  of  a  sceur  de 
Charite,  and  she  has  never  posed  for  an  artist  since  that 


■."'■<  Ii%|4^?" 


-Mem^mmmMM^^i^ 


•"■! 


420 


THE   STORY   OF   AN   KNTHUSIAST. 


sad  letter  from  Venice,  with  the  exception  of  the  few 
sittings  she  has  given  me  for  the  face  of  my  Christian 
Martyr.  In  that  face  lies  all  the  charm,  all  the  power 
of  the  work.  There  are  many  iigures,  but  I  know  the 
world  will  see  only  that  one  pure  virginal  face,  lit 
up  with  holy  love  and  faith  — the  soul  of  a  martyr 
shining  through  the  divine  eyes;  patient  sorrow,  heroic 
endurance,  and  heavenly  courage,  in  the  tender  smile 

around  the  lips. 

Ah !  there  have  been  other  Christian  martyrs  than 
those  who  have  perished  for  their  faith  at  the  stake  and 
under  the  fangs  of  wild  beasts,  and  Angelique  is  one  of 
them. 

I  have  made  a  singular  discovery,  which  quite  unnerves 
me  when  I  think  of  it.  I  have  been  out  on  one  of  .-'y 
long  pedestrian  journeys  across  the  Cainpagna,  anc  in 
noon  to-day,  feeling  weary,  and  finding  the  sun  qui'  ' 
although  it  is  November,  I  directed  my  steps  towa  .  ^ 
group  of  ruins,  shaded  by  lofty  pines,  and  surrounded 
by  an  under-growth  of  ilex,  acacia,  and  thick  clustering 
bushes  and  vines.  It  was  a  miniature  forest,  and  the 
shade  was  very  tempting. 

I  sat  down  on  a  fragment  of  a  cipolino  column  and 
turned  my  gaze  toward  the  Alban  hills.  In  spite  of  the 
bright  sunlight  around  me,  the  landscape  was  sombre 
and  mournful.  The  purple,  brown  tints  of  autumn  were 
scattered  lavishly  over  the  plain.  The  mountains  were 
black  in  the  shadows,  and  the  wan  sickly  light  trailed  off 
in  lines  of  gray  mist.  In  the  valley  a  mass  of  heavy 
clouds  were  rolled  together,  broken  by  jagged  flashes  of 
lightning,  and  slanting  spears  of  rain,  while,  beyond,  a 
pale,  slender  bow  spanned  the  sunny  peaks,  that  shone 


USIAST. 

Bptiou  of  the  few 
5  of  iny  Ohvistian 
,nn,  all  the  power 
!,  bvit  I  know  the 

virginal  face,  lit 
soul  of  a  martyr 
ent  sorrow,  heroic 

the  tender  smile 

;ian  martyrs  than 
h  at  the  stake  and 
ngelique  is  one  of 


lich  quite  unnerves 
out  on  one  of  .i^y 
ampagna,  and  rt  ' 
g  thesunqui^  * 
my  steps  towa  \  i 
es,  and  surrounded 
[id  thick  clustering 
lire  forest,  and  the 

ipolino  column  and 
Is.  In  spite  of  the 
dscapo  was  sombre 
uts  of  autumn  were 
rhe  mountains  were 
3kly  light  trailed  off 
y  a  mass  of  heavy 
by  jagged  flashes  of 
in,  while,  beyond,  a 
y  peaks,  that  shone 


SAXCTTTARY. 


421 


like  marble  pillars,  enshrouded  at  the  base  in  gloom  and- 
mystery. 

Around  me  all  was  serene  and  peaceful ;  not  a  sound 
broke  the  noonday  silence,  save  a  low  wind  that  rustled 
the  leaves  and  sear  grass  at  my  feet.  A  chameleon,  tnk- 
ing  the  brown  hue  of  its  surroundings,  basked  on  a  fraj,'- 
ment  of  stone  in  a  half-torpid  condition,  and  when  I 
touched  it  gently  with  my  foot  it  turned  its  dim  cyen 
upward  reproachfully,  and  trailed  slowly  and  languidly 
away  through  the  dry  grass.  It  was  the  only  sign  of 
life  within  my  vision ;  not  a  bird,  not  a  fieldfare,  not 
even  a  belated  butterfly,  fluttered  in  the  yellow  sunlight. 

Gently  parting  the  tangle  of  vines  and  dry  branches, 
I  penetrated  farther  among  the  ruins.  They  were  all 
that  remained  of  an  ancient  tomb,  that  must  once  -have 
been  a  magnificent  monument  to  a  dead  love,  for  the 
floor  was  paved  with  exquisite  mosaic,  and  the  walls  and 
broken  roofs  were  decorated  with  beautiful  designs  of 
early  imperial  art,  as  fresh  in  color  as  though  the  painter 
had  just  laid  down  his  brush.  There  was  nothing 
gloomy  or  ghostly  about  the  place.  Here  and  there 
gleams  of  sunlight  pierced  the  thick  foliage,  bringing 
out  the  gay  tints  of  the  painted  flowers  and  birds  with 
wonderful  brilliancy.  How  peaceful,  how  consoling,  how 
almost  cheerful,  was  this  mouldering  pagan  tomb !  What 
a  blessed  refuge  from  the  sorrows  of  life !  What  a  calm 
haven  after  the  tempests  of  a  stormy  existence  ! 

For  a  long  time  I  wandered  about  the  spot,  or  sat 
dreaming  of  the  dead  world  beneath  me,  suggested  by 
the  dark  openings  and  mounds  of  earth  thrown  up  by 
former  excavations.  Suddenly  the  profound  silence 
was  broken  by  a  sigh,  so  deep,  so  burdened,  so  sorrow- 
laden,  that  it  only  could  have  issued  from  a  soul  in 


422 


THE  STORY   OP   AN    ENTHUSIAST. 


great  anguish.  1  looked  hurriedly  around,  thery  was  no 
one ;  no  movement  broke  the  silence,  no  sound  only  the 
soft  soughing  of  the  wind.  Was  it  the  ghost  of  dead 
centuries  bemoaning  its  former  glory  ?  or  was  it  the 
echo  of  some  old  sorrow,  as  old  as  time,  as  old  as 
humanity,  that  repeated  itself  over  and  over,  as  ages 
succeeded  each  other?  After  a  moment  of  nervous 
apprehension  I  heard  it  again ;  and  now  so  heavy  as  to 
be  almost  a  groan.  I  was  sitting  near  a  ruined  wall  cov- 
ered with  a  tangle  of  vines.  Rising,  I  cautiously  parted 
the  withered  leaves  and  looked  through  an  aperture 
where  some  stones  had  fallen  away ;  and  there,  sitting 
on  a  block  of  marble  a  few  feet  from  me,  I  saw  the 
Saceone.  His  hooded  head  was  bowed  in  his  hands,  those 
unmistakable  hands,  and  his  whole  attitude  was  hopeless 
and  dejected. 

1  watched  him  for  some  moments ;  he  never  moved 
nor  changed  his  position,  but  from  time  to  time  I  heard 
those  burdened  sighs,  and  through  the  folds  of  the  white 
robe  I  could  see  him  shiver  and  shrink  as  though  a 
knotted  cord  cut  into  his  flesh,  while  his  hands,  which 
were  fearfully  emaciated,  clutched  spasmodically  at  the 
folds  of  the  hood  that  covered  his  temples. 

At  length,  leaving  the  spot  where  I  stood,  I  quietly 
made  the  detour  of  the  wall,  and  came  around  on  the  side 
where  I  had  seen  hira  sitting,  But  he  was  not  there ; 
he  had  disappeared.  There  was  the  block  of  marble 
where  he  sat,  and  the  sear  grass,  crushed  down  by  his 
feet  to  show  that  my  eyes  had  not  deceived  me  —  that  it 
was  a  human  being  I  had  seen,  and  not  a  denizen  of 
another  world. 

I  stood  still  for  a  moment,  bewildered  and  disap- 
pointed, and  then,  speaking  softly,  I  said.  "Polonse!" 


.. 


[AST. 

d,  theri.>  was  no 
sound  only  the 
ghost  of  dead 
or  was  it  the 
line,  a»  old  as 
I  over,  as  ages 
nt  of  nervous 
so  heavy  as  to 
•uined  wall  cov- 
utiously  parted 
[h  an  aperture 
d  there,  sitting 
me,  I  saw  the 
his  hands,  those 
de  was  hopeless 

e  never  moved 
to  time  I  heard 
Ids  of  the  white 
k  as  though  a 
is  hands,  which 
lodically  at  the 
?s. 

stood,  I  quietly 
jund  on  the  side 
was  not  there ; 
lock  of  marble 
ed  down  by  his 
'ed  me  —  that  it 
ot  a  denizen  of 

>red  and  disap- 
aid.  "  Polonse ! " 


SANCT0ARY. 


428 


But  there  was  no  answer ;  only  t'le  soughing  of  the  wind. 
Again  I  said,  louder  and  more  distinctly,  "Polonse!"  and 
far  off  a  faint  echo  replied  mockingly,  "Polonae." 

Where  could  he  have  vanished  in  an  instant,  in  the 
full  light  of  noonday  ?  I  examined  every  nook  and 
cranny  of  the  ruins,  I  peered  into  every  dark  opening 
that  seemed  to  lead  nowhere,  filled  as  they  were  with 
broken  stones  and  rubbish;  but  no  trace  of  him  could  I 
find.  However,  of  one  thing  I  am  certain  ;  I  have  seen 
him,  and  I  have  discovered  his  place  of  refuge,  a  ruined 
tomb  among  the  dead  of  past  ages. 

A  suffering  child  of  to-day,  burdened  with  the  inheri- 
tance of  all  humanity,  has  turned  to  the  past  for  peace 
and  oblivion.  Here,  in  the  vast  silence  of  dead  centuries, 
he  has  found  a  sanctuary  for  his  sorrow. 


Again  and  again  I  have  returned  to  that  ruined  tomb. 
Some  subtle  influence  draws  me  thither.  But,  although 
I  have  approached  cautiously  and  silently,  I  have  never 
since  had  a  glimpse  of  the  penitent.  Yet  I  know  he  is 
concealed  there  ;  I  feel  his  presence ;  I  feel  the  echo  of 
his  burdened  sighs ;  I  see  where  his  weary  feet  have  worn 
away  the  turf  by  frequent  pacing  back  and  forth,  per- 
haps in  the  solemn  night,  under  the  pale  stars,  when 
sleep  refuses  to  visit  his  eyelids.  Would  to  God  that  I 
could  share  his  vigil,  for  often,  too  often,  I  woo 
"Nature's  sweet  restorer"  in  vain.  There  is  a  secret 
fellowship  among  the  sorrowful,  and  my  unhappy  soul 
would  fain  find  companionship  with  his.  Why  does  he 
not  reveal  himself  to  me  ?  He  knows  that  I  am  his 
friend,  and  will  never  betray  him.  And  why  does  he  lin- 
ger near  the  sceue  of  his  —  no  I  will  not  say  it ;  none 


^i" 


424 


THE  STORY  OF   AN    KNTHtrSIAST. 


but  God  knows  the  mystery  of  that  awful  lughl,  and  I, 
his  friend,  must  not  accuse  him,  even  in  my  heart. 

My  picture  has  gone  to  Paris,  and  I  seem  to  have  lost 
another  interest  in  life.  While  I  was  working  on  it,  I 
was  working  for  her;  and  it  gave  me  courage  and 
energy.  Now  it  is  gone,  good  or  bad,  it  leaves  a 
blank  in   my   life,  and  I  have  one  motive    less    for 

Will  the  fame  of  my  Christian  Martyr  reach  to  Eng- 
land ?  and  will  it  convince  my  enemies  that  I  am  capable 
of  achieving  something  worthy  ?  Will  it  convince  Lord 
Hardraoor  that  I  can  redeem  the  past -that  I  can  yet 
make  a  name  that  the  world  will  respect  ?  God  knows 
1  am  not  ambitious  for  myself  ;  and  I  have  not  wrought 
this  labor  for  fame,  but  only  to  show  Dorethea  that  I 
am  still  trying  to  press  upward -still  trying  to  be 
worthy  of  her. 

A  letter  from  England,  from  Lady  Hardmoor;  and  she 
bids  me  to  hope.    Thank  God !  she  bids  me  to  hope. 


II. 

How  can  I  sit  down  calmly  before  this  recipient  of 
my  experiences,  and  write  with  any  degree  of  intelligence 
of  the  unexpected  happiness  that  has  come  to  me  since  I 
last  turned  these  pages. 

My  brain  is  in  a  confusion  of  delight ;  my  heart  a  tu- 
mult of  gratitude  and  joyful  expectation.  Suddenly 
youth  and  joy  have  come  to  me  again.  In  the  midst  ot 
darkness  a  great  light  has  burst  upon  me,  and  I  am 
blinded  and  bewildered,  but  intensely  happy ;  happier 
than  I  ev  r  was,  than  I  ever  thought  I  could  be.    I  have 


AST. 

I  night,  and  I, 
ay  heart. 

3m  to  have  lost 
jrking  on  it,  I 
e  courage  and 
,d,  it  leaves  a 
otive    less    for 

r  reach  to  Eng- 
lat  I  am  capable 
t  convince  Lord 
■  that  I  can  yet 
,  ?  God  knows, 
ivc  not  wrought 
Dorethea  that  I 

II  trying  to  be 


rdmoor ;  and  she 
me  to  hope. 


this  recipient  of 
ee  of  intelligence 
me  to  me  since  I 

;  my  heart  a  tu- 
ition.    Suddenly 

In  the  midst  of 
n  me,  and  I  am 

happy;  happier 
could  be.    I  have 


SANCTUAUy. 


426 


seen  her  ;  my  Dorethea  is  here  —  here  in  Rome ;  and  I 
have  knelt  at  her  feet,  penitent,  crushed,  broken,  and 
have  risen  a  new  man  — with  one  touch  of  her  weak, 
thin  hand,  laid  in  forgiveness  on  my  bowed  head. 

I  was  sitting  in  my  studio,  alone,  thinking,  as  I  have 
done  constantly,  of  Lady  Hardmoor's  letter,  —  written 
nearly  two  months  ago,  and  wondering,  as  I  have  a  thou- 
sand times,  just  what  her  words  meant,  wlien  there  was 
a  knock  at  my  door,  and,  before  I  could  answer  the  sum- 
mons, my  ccusin  Walter  stood  before  iiu-. 

At  first  1  was  so  overcome  that  I  could  only  cling  to 
his  hand  and  look  at  him  silently.  But  after  a  moment 
I  recovered  myself  enough  to  get  him  to  a  ehuir  and  to 
seat  myself  before  him,  ready  with  an  intinitude  of  ques- 
tions.  He  looked  bright  and  happy,  so  I  knew  that  he 
was  not  the  bearer  of  evil  tidings. 

"  Please  let  me  get  my  breath,"  he  cried,  as  I  plied 
him  eagerly.  "  Tliese  stairs  take  the  wind  out  of  one. 
Yes,    Edith    is    with    me,   and    we    arrived    late  last 

evening." 

"  But  why  didn't  you  let  me  know  you  were  coming, 
so  I  could  have  had  the  pleasure  of  expecting  you  ?  " 

"I  did  not  know  myself.  It  was  all  arranged  very 
suddenly,"  he  replied,  with  a  pleased  smile  in  his  kind 

eyes.  , 

"Why  was  it  arranged  suddenly  ?     Oh,  Walter,  have 

you  come  to  tell  me  about  Dorethea.     What  is  it  ?    Tell 

me  quickly.    Pray,  don't  keep  me  in  suspense." 

"Pooh,  pooh!  don't  get  excited!     Do  you  suppose  I 

have  come  all  this  way  to  tell  you  anything,  when  there 

are  the  mails  ?     Dorethea  is  better." 

"Is  better!"  I  repeated,  with  a  wild  thrill  of  hope. 

«'  Oh,  Walter,  you  don't  wean  that  she  is  with  you  '.'  " 


t 


426 


THE   STOKY   OF   AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


"Yes,  she  is  with  us.  You  are  so  excitable  that  I 
feared  to  tell  you  suddenly." 

«  Where  is  she  ?  I  must  go  to  her,"  I  cried,  spring- 
ing to  my  feet. 

"Wait  a  moment,  Felix;  listen  to  me.  You  can't 
rush  off  in  this  wild  way.  You  must  calm  yourself. 
Dorethea  is  far  from  well,  and  she  must  be  spared  all 
sudden  shocks.  I  don't  even  know  whether  she  has  de- 
cided to  see  you  now." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  here,  in  Rome,  and  not  see  me ! 
Oh,  Walter,  that  is  cruel !  " 

"  It  is  an  accident  —  our  staying  over.  We  intended 
only  to  pass  through  on  our  way  to  Naples.  You  see, 
the  doctor  ordered  Dorethea  to  the  south  of  Italy. 
Lady  Hardmoor's  health  did  not  admit  of  her  leaving 
home,  and  my  uncle  must  stay  and  coddle  that  wonder- 
ful boy.  He  is  quite  childish  about  him  —  a  son  and 
heir,  and  all  our  hopes  blighted.  Well,  his  lordship 
came  to  us  and  hinted  very  strongly  that  he  should  like 
us  to  take  a  journey  abroad  at  once.  The  doctor  said 
Dorethea  must  not  spend  the  spring  in  England.  That 
an  entire  change  was  necessary,  and  suggested  the  south 
of  Italy  as  a  desirable  cximate.  It  was  impossible  for 
him  to  leave  Lady  H.irdnoor  and  the  boy.  Doro- 
thea was  happier  with  us  ihan  with  any  one  else.  I 
could  easily  iind  som?  one  to  fill  my  place  for  three 
months ;  and  the  trij)  woulrl  be  an  agreeable  change.  In 
short,  would  I  take  Edith  and  Dorethea  and  travel  for 
a  while  ?  I  saw  no  reason  to  refuse,  and  in  three  days 
we  were  on  our  way.  As  I  said,  we  intended  to  pass 
directly  through  to  Naples.  But  this  morning  Dorethea 
was  very  tired,  and  expressed  a  wish  to  remain  over. 
So  I  sent  for  the  English  doctor  to  ask  his  opinion,  and 


[AST. 

xcitable  that  I 

I  cried,  spring- 

ne.    You  can't 

calm  yourself. 

;  be  spared  all 

iier  she  has  de- 

md  not  see  me ! 

.  We  intended 
pies.  You  see, 
outh  of    Italy. 

of  her  leaving 
le  that  wonder- 
ira  —  a  son  and 
11,   his  lordship 

he  should  like 
rhe  doctor  said 
England.  That 
;ested  the  south 
\  impossible  for 
le  boy.  Dore- 
ny  one  else.     I 

place  for  three 
ible  change.     In 

and  travel  for 
d  in  three  days 
itended  to  pass 
orning  Porethea 
to  remain  over, 
[lis  opinion,  and 


SANCTUARY. 


427 


he  advised  her  to  get  well  rested  before  she  continued 
her  journey." 

"Did  she  know  that  you  were  coming  to  me?  1 
asked,  with  a  sinking  heart. 

"  She  has  not  spoken  of  you,  but  I  think  the  desire  to 
see  you  determined  her  to  remain  here  for  the  present." 

"  I  must  go  to  her,"  I  said  again.  "  Walter,  I  must 
see  her  or  die.  I  will  be  calm,  as  still  as  death  ;  I  will 
turn  myself  to  stone.  I  will  only  look  at  her.  Let  me 
see  her,  I  beg  of  you." 

"  My  dear  cousin,  my  dear  Felix,  I  want  you  to  see 
her  in  a  way  that  won't  injure  her.  This  wretched  state 
of  things  must  be  changed.  Dorethea's  life  depends  on 
it.  Her  illness  is  caused  by  secretly  fretting  over  this 
trouble.  Edith  knows  it,  and  I  know  it,  although  her 
father  will  not  admit  it.  The  poor  deluded  man  imag- 
ines that  she  never  thinks  of  you.  But,  Felix,  I  must 
prepare  Dorethea  first ;  I  don't  know  all  the  secrets  of 
her  heart.  I  can't  tell  whether  her  father  gave  her  per- 
mission to  see  you.  You  know  how  conscientious  she  is. 
She  will  never  disobey  him.  I  will  ask  her,  and  if  she 
wishes  to  see  you  I  will  let  you  know  directly." 
"Where  is  she?" 
"  Not  a  stone's-throw  from  here.    At  the  Europa,  in  the 

square  below." 

"Walter,  let  me  know  my  fate,  quickly.  I  can t  live 
with  her  so  near  me  and  not  see  her." 

"You  know  I  will  do  all  I  can,"  replied  Walter, 
kindly.  "  I  am  anxious  to  have  you  see  her,  but  we 
must  be  calm  and  rational.  How  could  I  answer  to  her 
father,  if  I  should  allow  her  to  receive  any  sudden  shock 
that  might  be  fatal  to  her  ?  " 

"Walter,  dear  cousin,  do  you  think   I   am   entirely 


T 


428 


THE  8T0KY  OF  AN  ENTHUSIAST. 


irresponsible  ?  Who  loves  her  as  I  do  ?  Could  I  wish 
to  harm  hev  ?  For  her  sake,  I  can  repress  every  out- 
ward euiotion.  I  can  meet  her  calmly  and  quietly.  I 
only  ask  to  kneel  at  her  feet  and  implore  her  pardon 
with  my  eyes." 

«  Well,  my  dear  Felix,  I  will  speak  to  her,  and,  if  she 
receives  my  overtures  favorably,  I  will  tell  her  you  are 
waiting  to  see  her.     You  may  as  well  come  to  the  hotel 
\  with  me.     Edith  will  be  glad  to  see  you." 

Edith  was  at  a  little  writing-table,  busy  over  letters, 
when  we  entered  her  i)arlor.  She  received  me  with 
every  sign  of  good-will,  and  looked  so  bright  and  happy 
that  I  felt  hopeful  at  once. 

"  Do  you  think  Dorothea  will  see  Felix  ?  "  asked  Wal- 
ter, anxiously,  of  his  wife. 

«'  Certainly,  she  will  see  him.  Poor  child  !  it  is  what 
she  is  here  for,"  replied  Edith,  confidently. 

"Are  you  sure,  my  dear?— have  you  asked  her?"  in- 
sisted Walter,  with  exasperating  caution. 

"  I  have  not  asked  her,  but  I  judge  so  from  her  desire 
to  stay  over.  How  can  she  help  seeing  him,  when  he  is 
here?"  and  she  turned  a  bright,  warm  smile  on  me. 
"  Wait  a  moment,  and  I  will  go  and  find  out  the  state  of 
her  poor  little  sick  heart." 

"Yes,  you  had  better  go,  my  dear.  I  thought  of 
speaking  to  her  myself,  of  approaching  the  subject 
very  cautiously,  for,  you  know,  she  must  not  be  ex- 
cited." 

"I  understand  all  that  perfectly.  We  women  know 
how  to  manage  such  matters  instinctively,  and  you,  my 
dear  cousin,  brighten  up  and  look  more  hopeful,  or  you 
will  shock  her  with  your  melancholy  visage.  The  doc- 
tor says  she  must  see  only  cheerful  faces,"  and,  with  a 


T 


UA8T. 

•  Oould  I  wish 
)res3  every  out- 
and  quietly.  I 
lore  lier  purduu 

her,  und,  if  she 
tell  her  you  are 
)ine  to  the  hotel 

usy  over  letters, 
ceived  me  with 
right  and  happy 

X  ?  "  asked  Wal- 

!hild  !  it  is  what 
tly. 

asked  her  ?  "  iii- 
1. 
)  from  her  desire 

him,  when  he  is 
m  smile  on  me. 
1  out  the  state  of 

I  thought  of 
ing  the  subject 
nust  not  be  ex- 

Ne  women  know 
ely,  and  you,  my 
3  hopeful,  or  you 
/isage.  The  doc- 
3es,"  and,  with  a 


BANCTUAKY. 


429 


gay  little  laugh,  she  opened  a  door  and  entered  a  connect- 
ing; rodiii. 

"Edith  is  very  cheery,"  suid  VV niter,  fondly,  looking 
after  his  wife;  "and  Dorethea  loves  her  dearly.  She 
will  get  at  the  bottom  of  her  hciirt,  if  any  one  can." 

I  heard  Walter  rambling  on,  but  his  voice  sounded 
miles  away.  I  glanced  in  a  mirror  opposite,  and  my 
white  still  face  looked  at  me  stonily,  my  hands  were 
cold  and  rigid,  and  my  heart  seemed  to  have  suspended 
beating 

I  saw  Edith  appear  at  the  door,  and  I  went  forward  to 
meet  her.  She  was  smiling  through  her  tears.  "God 
bless  you,"  she  whispered ;  then  she  added,  with  a  little 
arch  glance,  "  don't  stay  too  long." 

She  stood  with  her  back  to  the  door,  and  as  she  spoke 
she  opened  it  partially,  and  then  closed  it  quickly  as  I 
entered. 

I  saw  only  one  object  in  all  the  room.  A  sofa  covered 
with  soft  white  fur,  a  golden  head,  a  pale  face,  with  eyes 
that  looked  strangely  large  and  dark,  and  two  little 
hands  held  out  eagerly.  In  an  instant  I  was  on  my  knees 
beside  her,  and  only  two  words  escaped  my  lips,  "  For- 
give me  ! "  Then  there  was  a  long  silence,  solemn,  sweet, 
holy,  while  her  light  hand  lay  on  my  head  like  a  bene- 
diction from  God. 

She  was  the  first  to  speak.  "  Poor  Felix,  poor  soul, 
how  you  have  suffered !     Your  hair  is  quite  gray." 

I  lifted  my  eyes  mutely  to  her  face.  I  dared  not 
speak,  for  fear  my  intense  emotion  would  break  the 
bounds  I  had  imposed  on  it. 

Two  great  tears  were  slowly  rolling  down  her  cheeks. 
I  kissed  them  away  while  I  held  her  close  to  my  heart. 
Then  I  laid  her  back  on  her  pillow,  and,  drawing  a  chair 


THE  STORY  OF  AN   KNTHUSIART. 


beside  her,  1  took  lier  hands  in  niinu  und  looked  silently 
into  her  face. 

"  Am  I  much  clianged  ?  "  she  aaked,  with  a  faint  smile. 

"No,  darling.     Nothing  can  cliangf  you  to  me." 

She  does  not  look  ill,  only  thinner  and  nu)re  spiritual. 
She  is  exquisitely  beautiful.  Her  eyes  have  a  look  of 
lieaven  in  them,  and  her  soul  seems  to  Hhiic  tiirough 
her  delicate,  transparent  face  when  she  speaks  and 
smiles,  and  she  seems  younger,  more  girlish,  than  when 
I  left  her.  There  is  something  almost  infantile  in  her 
little  appealing  ways.  While  I  was  looking  at  her,  she 
was  also  studying  me  as  she  stroked  my  hair  with  her 
soft,  thiu  fingers.  At  length  she  said,  in  a  sad  mono- 
tone :  — 

"  Almost  two  years  ;  and  when  we  parted,  we  thought 
it  was  only  for  a  few  days.  Oh,  Felix !  it  has  seemed 
an  Eternity." 

"  Hush,  darling  ;  you  will  break  my  heart." 

"It  fias  broken  mine;  and  now  we  must  part  for- 
ever," she  said,  softly. 

"  Never,  never ! "  I  cried,  sava^'ely  crushing  her  in 
my  arms.  I  was  slipping  away  from  my  bounds;  my 
emotion  was  about  to  break  forth  like  a  torrent,  but, 
with  a  superhuman  effort,  I  recovered  myself. 

She  gasped  slightly,  and  pressed  her  hand  to  her 
heart.  Again  I  laid  her  back  on  her  pillow  and  softly 
stroked  her  bright  hair. 

"My  darling,"  I  said  at  random,  scarcely  knowing 
what  I  was  saying,  "  tell  me  about  your  little  brother 
Do  you  love  him  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  think  1  do,"  she  replied,  smiling  sadly;  "but 
I  hardly  know.  I  have  seen  so  little  of  him.  He  is 
very  pretty,  so  plump  and  rosy,  with  beautiful  daik 


T 


T 


UAHT. 

,  looked  silently 

th  a  faint  smile. 
)u  to  me." 
[  more  spiritual, 
have  ii  look  of 
)  sir,  lie  til  rough 
ihe  speaks  and 
•lish,  than  when 
infantile  in  her 
iing  at  her,  she 
y  hair  with  her 
in  a  sad  mono- 

ted,  we  thought 
I  it  has  seemed 

eart." 
must  part  for- 

crushing  her  in 

my  bounds;   my 

I  a  torrent,  but, 

yself. 

ler  hand  to  her 

iUow  and  softly 

larcely  knowing 
ir  little  brother 

ing  sadly;  "but 

of  him.     He  is 

beautiful  daik 


HANCTUARV. 


m 


eyes,  like  Lady  Hardnumr'M."  I  notieei!  she  did  not 
say  "  mania."  "  I  am  so  glad  for  dear  papa ;  he  will  be 
such  a  comfort  to  him  when  —  "  she  paused,  and  then 
added,  "  There  is  only  one  thing  on  earth  I  wish  for 
now,  dear  Felix." 

"What  is  it,  Dorothea?  Is  it  anything  possible  for 
me  to  do  ?  " 

•'  I  fear  not.  I  want  you  and  papa  to  be  friendly ; 
but  I  am  afraid  he  will  never  forgive  you." 

"  He  must,  Dorothea,  he  nnist.  He  cannot  be  more 
obdurate  than  God,  who  forgives  the  penitent  sinner. 
I  will  go  on  my  knees  to  him,  for  your  sake ;  and  I  will 
remain  there  until  I  weary  him  with  my  insistence. 
He  cannot  be  so  hard." 

"  He  is  not  hard,  dear ;  he  is  very  tender  and  gentle 
to  me.  And  oh,  Felix,  don't  you  understand  that  he 
allowed  me  to  come  to  Italy!  — that  he  released  me 
from  my  promise  never  to  see  you  again  !  He  knoioa 
that  my  heart  broke  in  Paris  when  I  saw  you.  Oh,  I 
can't,  1  must  not  speak  of  it." 

"  No,  my  love,  you  must  not,"  and  I  laid  my  fingers 
gently  on  her  lips. 

"  Now  he  sees  that  I  can  only  be  cured  by  you." 
"  My  precious  love,  I  will  give  ray  life  to  you.     I  will 
never  leave  you  again,  never,  never.     Dorethea,  give  me 
the  right  now,  this  very  hour,  to  stay  with  you  always. 
I  can't  spare  you  from  my  sight  for  an  hour." 

"  You  are  just  the  same  as  always ;  my  poor,  impetu- 
ous Felix,"  she  replied,  with  a  calm  smile.  "  I  am  satis- 
fied only  to  see  you ;  and,  even  if  I  should  never  see 
you  again,  I  shoidd  die  happier  for  these  few  moments. 
But,  my  love,  we  must  part  on  earth  again,  and  then, 
perhaps,  in  a  little  while  the  long,  long  parting." 


^f 


482 


THE   STOlty   OF    AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


"  Dorethea,  you  torture  me.  Death  sliall  not  take  you 
from  me.  You  must  live  —  you  shall  live.  I  will  stay 
with  you.  I  will  watch  you  night  and  day,  my  love, 
my  devotion,  will  cure  your  sick  heart.  Dorethea,  re- 
member what  we  have  suffered.  Do  not  give  fate 
another  chance  to  defraud  us  of  our  happiness.  Let 
Walter  arrange  everything,"  I  urged,  desperately.  "  It 
is  so  easy,  so  simple,  the  few  words  that  will  give  me 
the  right  to  remain  always  with  you." 

She  opened  her  blue  eyes  wide,  and  looked  at  me  with 
a  soft  smile. 

"It  surprises  me  even  now,  and  I  thought  I  knew 
you  so  well,  to  see  how  easily  you  ignore  all  barriers,  all 
convenance." 

"What  are  barriers  and  convetiance  to  vis,"  I  cried, 
"  when  our  happiness,  our  very  life,  is  at  stake  ?  " 

"  But,  dear  Felix,  papa  did  not  say  that  I  could  be 
your  wife.  He  did  not  refuse  to  allow  me  to  see  you  ; 
but  he  has  not  forgiven  you,  and  he  will  not  consent  for 
me  to  marry  you.  I  could  not  disobey  him  on  the  very 
brink  of  the  grave." 

"  You  are  not  on  the  brink  of  the  grave,  and  if  you 
were  I  would  snatch  you  back.  Dorethea,  I  am  in  tor- 
ment ;  darling,  do  not  refuse  my  prayer." 

"  Let  me  try  to  get  well,  first.  Let  us  see  if  you  can 
cure  me,"  she  pleaded,  softly  stroking  my  baud. 

"But  how  can  I  cure  you  if  we  must  be  parted 
again,  if  you  go  away  from  me  ?  " 

"  I  shall  not  go  away  from  you.  I  shall  stay  here,  in 
spite  of  the  doctors,"  she  replied,  with  a  pretty  air  of 
wilfulness.  "And  you  shall  see  me  every  day,  and 
when  I  am  rested  you  shall  show  me  this  beautiful 
Rome  ;  and,  if  I  can  be  cured,  that  will  cure  me.    In  the 


tUSIAST. 

sliall  not  take  you 
live.  I  will  stay 
111(1  (lay,  my  love, 
art.  Dorethea,  re- 
Do  not  give  fate 
Li-  happiness.  Let 
desperately.  "  It 
that  will  give  me 

looked  at  me  with 

[  thought!  knew 
ore  all  barriers,  all 

'26  to  US,"  I  cried, 
sat  stake?" 
Ly  that  I  could  be 
iw  me  to  see  you ; 
all  not  consent  for 
y  him  on  the  very 

}  grave,  and  if  you 

rethea,  I  am  in  tor- 

'er." 

;  us  see  if  you  can 

J  my  hand. 

e  must  be  parted 

shall  stay  here,  in 
ith  a  pretty  air  of 
ne  every  day,  and 

me  this  beautiful 
ill  cure  me.    In  the 


SANCTUAUY. 


438 


uieautime,  you  must  write  a  very  kind,  gentle  letter  to 
papa,  and  I  will  write  a  very  sweet  one  to  him;  and,  if 
he  forgives  you  and  consents,  —  well,  perhaps  when  I 
am  strong  enough  to  stand  up  for  so  long"  —  her  ;  she 
broke  off  with  quite  a  joyous  laugh. 

Again  I  pressed  her  to  my  heart  and  whispered,  "  My 
darling,  I  am  in  heaven.  You  have  saved  me  /rom 
despair." 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  tap  at  the  door,  and  the 
merry  voice  of  Edith,  "  Come,  come  !  this  is  a  long  visit 
to  an  invalid.  Do  you  know  that  you  have  been  talking 
incessantly  for  an  hour.  I  must  take  Felix  away  now," 
she  said,  smoothing  Dorethea's  cheek  playfully.  "  I  know 
you  are  tired.  You  must  take  your  drops,  and  a  long 
nap,  and  if  you  are  very  good  you  shall  see  him  again, 

later." 

Dorethea  raised  her  eyes  wistfully  to  me  as  I  stooped 
to  kiss  her,  and  whispered,  "  Be  patient,  dear  love ;  I 
feel  confident  that  papa  will  let  us  be  happy  by  and 

by." 

I  only  remained  a  moment  to  thank  Walter,  and  to  tell 
him  that,  with  Dorethea's  sanction,  I  was  about  to  write 
to  Lord  Hardraoor  to  ask  him  again  to  consent  to  our 
marriage. 

"Certainly;  go  and  write  to  him.  Now  is  the  time. 
He  is  thoroughly  anxious  about  Dorethea;  and  his 
heart  is  considerably  softened  by  his  satisfactory  domes- 
tic relations.  Besides,  I  can  assure  you  that  Lady  Hard- 
moor  is  desirous  of  having  Dorethea  married  and 
settled.  They  do  not  get  on  well  together.  Dorethea 
and  her  father  are  too  devoted  to  each  othr;r  to  suit  her 
ladyship ;  and  now  she  does  not  wish  the  boy  to  have  a 
rival  in  his  father's  affection.    She  told  me  ot  your 


!l! 


434 


THE   STORY   OF   AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


letter,  and  I  think  it  was  through  her  influence  that  the 
doctor  ordered  Dorethea  to  Italy.  But  be  careful,  Felix, 
how  you  write  to  my  uncle.  He  is  still  very  bitter 
about  the  old  affair ;  aud  you  must  be  conciliating,  and 
all  that." 

"  I  will  go  down  on  the  knees  of  my  spirit  to  him.  I 
will  humble  my  pride  in  the  dust.  I  will  cry,  '  Peccavi 
pcccavi,  Mea  Culpa,'  day  and  night,  until  he  forgives 
me,"  I  said,  as  I  went  away. 

Walter  laughed.  "The  same  eager,  impulsive  soul  as 
ever.  God  knows,  I  hope  you  will  succeed."  Then,  as 
I  was  closing  the  door,  he  called  out,  "  Be  sure  to  come 
in  time  to  dine  with  us." 

I  walked  across  the  piazza  and  up  the  Spanish  steps 
with  a  bound ;  my  heart  went  before  me,  aud  my  feet 
seemed  winged.  The  sun  shines  so  brightly,  and  the 
sky  has  lost  its  leaden  hue !  My  padrona  looked  at  me 
as  I  passed  her  on  the  stairs,  and  said,  with  an  intelli- 
gent smile,  "  You  are  getting  back  your  health,  signore." 
She  is  right;  I  am  getting  back  everything  — love, 
youth,  hope,  and,  as  I  live,  my  Raphael  smiles  on  me 
with  a  pleased  look  in  his  loving  eyes,  as  if  he  knew  my 
secret  and  rejoiced  with  me.  But,  dear  picture,  you  must 
go.  To  get  back  my  love  I  must  part  with  you ;  but 
you  will  always  be  enshrined  in  my  heart ;  I  shall 
always  love  you  faithfully,  and  you  will  not  go  into 
oblivion,  you  will  not  be  lost  to  the  world.  You  will  be 
proudly  enthroned  in  the  grandest  art-temple  in  the 
universe.  You  will  go  to  France,  to  the  Louvre,  and 
there  tb«^  world  will  worship  you  as  you  deserve. 

I  believe  there  are  tears  in  my  eyes.     How  childish 
happiness  aud  love  will  make  a  man ! 

I  have  finished  my  letter  to  Lord  Hardmoor,  and  in  it 


•: 


VST. 

leiice  that  the 
careful,  Felix, 
11  very  bitter 
iciliating,  and 

rit  to  him.     T 

[  cry,  '  Peceavi 
,il  he  forgives 

julsive  soul  as 
ed."  Then,  as 
i  sure  to  come 

Spanish  steps 
e,  and  my  feet 
;htly,  and  the 
z  looked  at  me 
fith  an  intelli- 
jalth,  signore." 
[■ything  —  love, 
smiles  on  me 
if  he  knew  my 
Bture,  you  must 
with  you ;  but 
heart ;  I  shall 
ill  not  go  into 
1.  You  will  be 
•temple  in  the 
le  Louvre,  and 
ieserve. 
How  childish 

Imoor,  and  in  it 


SANCTUAltY. 


486 


: 


I  have  enclosed  one  to  M.  Michelet,  accepting  the  offer 
of  five  hundred  thousii-i('.  francs  from  the  French  govern- 
ment for  my  Raphael,  that  his  lordship  may  see  that  1 
am  sincere  in  my  desire  to  make  every  reparation  possi- 
ble, and  to  place  my  financial  affairs  on  their  original 
basis  ;  and  if  the  Christian  Martyr  sdls  for  the  pritie  my 
master  put  upon  it,  I  shall  be  considerably  richer  than  I 
was  two  years  ago.  Therefore  Lord  Hardmoor  need  not 
fear  poverty  for  his  daughter. 

Now  I  must  dress  for  dinner;  what  a  happy  dinner  it 
will  be  if  my  darling  is  well  enough  to  join  us  at  table. 

III. 

What  a  blissful  month  this  has  been.  I  am  sure 
Heaven  has  no  more  happiness  to  give  me  than  I  have 
enjoyed  with  Dorethea  since  the  morning  she  laid  her 
gentle  hand  on  my  head  in  forgiveness.  I  have  passed 
most  of  the  time  with  her,  and  every  day  she  grows 
stronger  and  more  hopeful. 

Walter  and  Edith  are  delighted  at  her  improvement, 
and  every  letter  that  goes  to  England  contains  the  most 
favorable  reports,  while  those  they  receive  in  return 
bring  us  gleams  of  hope  which  promise  much  happiness 
hereafter.  We  have  not  yet  received  the  much  desired 
permission,  but  we  are  expecting  it  daily.  However,  we 
are  so  happy  as  we  are  that  we  almost  fear  any  change. 
Dorethea  is  well  enough  to  drive  out,  and  to  walk  short 
distances,  and  she  has  even  toiled  up  the  long  stairs  to 
my  studio,  with  much  assistance  from  Walter  and 
myself,  and  much  laughter  from  Edith,  who  declares 
whimsically  that  she  is  quite  disgusted  with  us  all ; 
that  none  of  us  care  whether  she  is  weary  or  not,  and 


'  «S8ffi-&'«:"-ft-  ■»JUg8jSW,^.'g4IJ 


-,-il-. 


436 


THE   STORY  OF   AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


that  even  her  husband's  arm  is  never  at  her  service,  be- 
cause this  dear  exacting  little  invalid  monopolizes  all  the 
masculine  support  around  her ;  and  much  more  nonsense 
of  the  same  kind,  which  seems  amusing,  because  we  are 
happy  and  ready  to  laugh  at  the  slightest  provocation. 

However,  when  we  reached  my  studio,  and  Dorethea 
saw  the  wonderful  picture  which  has  made  so  much 
trouble  for  us,  her  face  became  very  solemn,  and  tlie 
laughter  died  on  her  lips.  For  a  long  time  she  looked 
at  it  silently ;  then  turning  suddenly,  she  hid  her  face 
on  my  shoulder  to  conceal  her  tears,  while  she  whis- 
pered, "  I  understand  it  all  now,  and  I  am  not  surprised 
that  you  sacrificed  so  much  for  it.  Oh,  Felix,  how  can 
you  give  it  up  for  me  even  now  ?  " 

"Easily,  my  sweet  soul,  without  a  pang.  I  shall  not 
lose  it.  It  will  still  be  mine,  ours,  and  the  world's.  It 
would  be  selfish  for  me  to  keep  it  here  within  the  nar- 
row walls  of  this  little  studio.  It  belongs  to  the  world, 
darling,  and  the  world  must  have  it.  I  am  not  sure  but 
what  I  should  send  it  to  France,  in  any  case ;  so  don't 
imagine  that  I  am  making  a  sacrifice." 

"  Ah,  Felix,  you  are  so  good.  You  tell  me  that  to  set 
my  mind  at  rest  about  it ;  but  I  know  how  much  it  will 
cost  you  to  give  it  up." 

"Hush,  you  doubting  child!"  cried  Edith;  "you 
should  believe  Felix  implicitly ;  a  little  person  in  your 
position  has  no  right  to  exercise  her  opinion." 

« I  quite  agree  with  Felix,"  interrupted  Walter. 
"  Such  a  picture  ought  not  to  be  in  a  private  collection. 
It  belongs  to  the  public,  and  it  should  be  placed  where 
the  public  can  have  the  benefit  of  it.  Why,  to  study  it 
is  an  education  in  art.  What  color !  What  life !  It 
has  all  the  intelligence  of  a  living  countenance." 


I 


ill 


7SIAST. 


SAMCXUARY. 


487 


it  her  service,  be- 
onopolizes  all  the 
ch  more  nonsense 
g,  because  we  are 
ist  provocation, 
lio,  and  Doretliea 
s  made   so  much 

solemn,  and  the 
:  time  she  looked 

she  hid  her  face 
,  while  she  whis- 

am  not  surprised 
ih,  Felix,  how  can 

ang.  I  shall  not 
d  the  world's.  It 
.•e  within  the  nar- 
ongs  to  the  world, 
1  am  not  sure  but 
ny  case ;  so  don't 

tell  me  that  to  set 
•  how  much  it  will 

■ied  Edith;  "you 
;le  person  in  your 
pinion." 

terrupted  Walter, 
private  collection, 
d  be  placed  where 
Why,  to  study  it 
!  What  life!  It 
utenance." 


"Dear,  beautiful  face,"  said  Dorethea,  softly,  "you 
were  my  rival  once,  but  I  forgive  you.  I  cannot  be 
jealous  with  tliose  eyes  and  that  smile  before  me." 

I  have  just  received  a  letter  from  my  master,  and  he 
is  enthusiastic  over  the  astonishing  success  of  the  Chris- 
tian Martyr.  He  says  it  is  a  veritable  triumph ;  that 
no  other  picture  is  spoken  of  in  Paris;  that  crowds 
stand  before  it  from  morning  until  night,  singing  its 
praises  in  all  tongues.  M.  Michelet,  although  ill  and 
feeble,  has  put  aside  his  infirmities  in  order  to  see  it; 
and  has  written  a  most  laudatory  article  for  the  Paris 
journals,  which  has  been  copied  by  both  the  English  and 
German  press;  and  he  kindly  .adds  that  he  rejoices  as 
though  the  renown  was  his,  and  does  he  not  share  the 
glory,  for  is  it  not  his  scholar  and  friend  Avho  has 
painted  the  greatest  picture  of  the  time,  and  who,  to- 
day, is  more  talked  of  than  any  other  artist  in  Europe  '! 
But  that  both  he  and  his  dear  wife  love  me  too  well  to 
envy  me. 

Dorethea  was  quite  beside  herself  with  joy,  when  she 
read  the  letter ;  La  Santa  was  sitting  with  her,  —  they 
have  become  very  fond  of  each  other,  —  and  my  dear  girl 
turned  to  her  so  sweetly,  and  said,  with  such  charming 
sincerity,  "We  owe  you  so  much,  dear  Angelique.  If 
Felix  had  not  had  you  for  the  model  of  his  Christian 
Martyr,  it  never  would  have  appealed  to  the  heart  as  it 
has  done.  It  is  your  sweet  face  that  has  won  the 
world." 

Angelique  smiled  gently.  "You  must  not  give  me 
the  praise,  dear  friend.  The  picture  is  full  of  truth  and 
feeling.  It  is  the  outgrowth  of  great  endeavor,  strength- 
ened and  purified  by  sorrow.     If  it  elevates  and  eiino- 


438 


THE   STORY   OF   AN    ENTHUSIAST. 


bles  even  one  soul,  I  am  thankful  to  have  had  a  small 
share  in  it ;  but  I  must  insist  tliat  all  tlie  glory  is  due  to 
the  genius  that  could  so  well  express  what  he  saw  and 
felt." 

"  Altogether,  you  will  make  Felix  inordinately  vain," 
cried  Edith.  "  I  don't  want  him  to  quito  lose  his  men- 
tal and  moral  poise,  so  /  shall  insist  on  his  going  to 
vesper  service  Avith  me,  where  he  can  be  restored  to  a 
proper  degree  of  gratitude  and  humility." 

"  Gratitude  and  humility,"  I  repeated.  "  You  are 
right,  Edith.  When  we  have  so  many  good  things 
showered  on  us  suddenly,  we  are  apt  to  forget  to 
be  sutlioiently  thankful.  It  is  well  that  we  have  such 
a  sensible  scjul  among  us  to  act  as  mentor,  or  other- 
wise we  might  find  ourselves  in  a  thoroughly  chaotic 
condition." 

"Very  well.  Will  you  leave  these  mutual  admirers 
to  praise  you  behind  your  back,  and  come  to  church 
with  me  ?  "  insisted  Edith,  looking  at  me  severely,  with 
her  head  on  one  side.  "  Walter  has  deserted  me  to  go 
to  drive  Avith  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fabrien ;  confidentially,  I 
think  he  is  quite  ipris  with  that  nice  gentle  Laura; 
however,  I  don't  blame  him,  for  I  am  in  love  with  both 
husband  and  wife." 

"  Oh,  what  shocking  confessions  !  Come,"  I  said,  tak- 
ing my  hat,  "  let  us  go,  before  you  disgrace  yourself  any 
farther." 

"  Isn't  it  too  bad,  Felix  ?  "  cried  Dorethea.  "  Ange- 
lique  won't  promise  to  dine  with  us  this  evening.  Can't 
you  induce  her  to  come  ?  " 

"  Please  don't  try,  my  dear  friend,"  and  Ang^lique 
looked  pleadingly  at  me.  "  You  know  I  have  quite  re- 
nounced the  pomps  and  vanities  of  this  world.     I  never 


tilAST. 

ive  had  a  small 
le  glory  is  due  to 
rhat  he  saw  and 

ji'dinately  vain," 
to  lose  his  uieii- 
011  his  going  to 
be  restored  to  a 

ited.  "  Yo\i  are 
any  good  things 
pt  to  forget  to 
at  we  have  such 
nentor,  or  other- 
oroughly  chaotiu 

mutual  admirers 
come  to  church 
ne  severely,  with 
jserted  me  to  go 
confidentially,  I 
ce  gentle  Laura; 
n  love  with  both 

ome,"  I  said,  tak- 
;race  yourself  any 

orethea.  "  Ange- 
s  evening.     Cau't 

,"  and  Ang61ique 

I  have  quite  re- 

s  world.     I  never 


SANCTUARY. 


489 


go  into  society;  I  have  other  pleasures ;  and  I  like  best  to 
see  my  friends  filone." 

"  But  just  this  once,"  urged  Dorethea. 

"My  dear,  I  have  to  nurse  a  sick  child  to-night.  The 
little  sufferer  is  fond  of  me,  and  I  would  not  disappoint 
him  for  the  world." 

"Well,  you  are  an  angel,"  cried  Dorethea,  taking  both 
her  hands  and  looking  in  her  face  with  eyes  full  of  won- 
der. "To  give  up  everything  at  your  age,  and  you  not 
ill.     I  can't  understand  it." 

"  I  hope  you  will  never  need  to,  my  dear,"  said  Ang6- 
lique,  softly.  "  God  does  not  teach  us  all  from  the  same 
book,  nor  in  the  same  language.  My  lesson  was  diffi- 
cult to  learn,  but  I  know  it  all  now." 

"  Is  she  not  original  ? "  said  Edith,  speaking  of  La 
Santa,  as  we  walked  toward  Sant'  Andrea  delle  Fratte. 
"  She  has  the  simplicity  and  tenderness  of  a  child,  so 
innocent  and  gentle,  and  yet  so  firm  in  her  convictions  ; 
and  her  beauty  and  grace  Avould  make  her  a  queen  in 
any  society.  It  is  a  cruelty  to  the  world,  to  allow  such 
a  flower  to  blush  unseen." 

"  She  thinks  she  is  fulfilling  the  highest  intention  of 
her  Creator." 

"  Poor  little  fanatic  ! — she  has  a  wider  mission  than 
to  nurse  sick  children.  God  never  intended  her  to  be 
a  sceur  de  Charite  or  a  nun,  or  he  never  would  have 
given  her  such  a  fiico.  She  should  go  out  into  the 
world  as  an  apostle  of  beauty ;  she  would  make  more 
converts  to  an  idea!  life  than  she  ever  will  to  a  reli- 
gious one.'' 

"My  dear  Edith  !  my  dear  cousin  !  The  wife  of  an 
English  clergyman,  to  believe  in  the  elevation  of  the 
world  through  the  religion  of  beauty  I    You  startle  me  I 


440 


THE  8TOKY   OF   AH   KNTUU8IA8T. 


i 


I  am  just  beginuiug  to  sound  the  awful  depths  of  your 
heresy." 

We  were  entering  the  church ;  so  Edith  only  smiled 
mischievously,  but  offered  uo  defence  of  her  peculiar 
opinions. 

This  morning  I  received  two  letters  that  fulfil  every 
expectation,  and  now  I  begin  to  feel  that  my  happiness 
is  secure.  The  first  is  from  M.  Michelet,  saying  tliat  he 
has  brouglit  his  negotiations  with  the  government  to  a 
successful  issue,  and  that  an  agent  will  be  despatched 
to  Kome  to  make  the  necessary  arrangements  for  the 
transfer  of  the  picture. 

The  otlier  is  from  Lord  Hardmoor,  and  is  a  much  kinder 
letter  than  I  expected.  He  agrees  to  consider  the  past 
as  entirely  wiped  out,  and  goes  so  far  as  to  admit  that 
he  has  not  been  altogether  free  from  blame  himself  — 
but  that  whatever  he  did  he  then  thought  was  for  the 
best,  although  he  has  since  discovered  that  he  was  mis- 
taken. He  speaks  very  flatteringly  of  my  picture,  and 
considers  it  a  guarantee  of  my  future  success,  and  finally 
consents  to  our  marriage,  on  one  condition,  and  that  is 
that  we  must  wait  until  the  actual  transfer  of  the  pic- 
ture takes  place,  and  it  is  beyond  all  possibility  of  my 
changing  my  present  determination.  He  wishes  the 
wedding  to  take  place  at  the  English  chapel,  privately 
and  quietly,  and  adds  that  as  soon  as  Dorethea's  health 
will  permit,  I  must  bring  her  back  to  England. 

The  agent  from  France  must  be  here  in  a  few  days,  and 
there  will  be  no  delay  in  transferring  the  picture ;  there- 
fore, we  can  count  on  our  marriage  taking  place  within 
the  week. 

Thank  God,  my  happiness  seems  very  near  now,  for 


m 


UUHIABT. 

rful  depths  of  your 

3  Edith  only  smiled 
lice  of  her  peculiar 


?r8  that  fulfil  every 
that  my  happiness 

lelet,  saying  that  he 

he  government  to  a 
will  be  despatched 

rangenients  for  the 

and  is  a  much  kinder 
;o  consider  the  past 
ar  as  to  admit  that 
m  blame  himself  — 
;hought  was  for  the 
3d  that  he  was  mis- 
of  my  picture,  and 
B  success,  and  finally 
)udition,  and  that  is 
transfer  of  the  pic- 
11  possibility  of  my 
n.  He  wishes  the 
isli  chapel,  privately 
s  Dorethea's  health 
o  England, 
ere  in  a  few  days,  and 
g  the  picture ;  there- 
taking  place  within 

i  very  near  now,  for 


PANCTl'ARY. 


441 


my  darling  quietly  agrees  to  all  my  plans.  She  too  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  her  fatlier,  by  the  same  mail  that 
brought  mine  ;  full  of  thankfulness  for  her  retunnng 
health,  and  interest  in  her  future  welfare.  Stil',  it  is  evi- 
dent that  he  considers  his  son  the  crowning  blessing  of  his 
life.  There  is  also  a  pleasant  message  from  Lady  Hard- 
moor,  with  many  good-wishes,  which  I  like  to  think  are 
sincere,  and  which  1  consider  a  good  omen  for  our 
future. 

"  I  never  thought  to  be  married  away  from  home,  and 
without  papa,"  said  Dorethea,  after  a  long  revery  that 
followed  the  reading  of  her  father's  letter.  "How 
strange  it  all  seems  !  It  is  like  an  improbable  dream." 
"But  a  happy  one,  I  trust,  my  darling." 
"Oh,  yes,  a  greater  happiness  than  I  ever  thought 
would  come  to  us ;  and  even  now,  Felix,  I  can't  make  ray- 
self  believe  that  I  am  to  be  always  with  you,  that  we  are 
never  to  be  parted  again." 

"  Try  to,  darling ;  for,  unless  fate  is  more  cruel  than  I 
think,  nothing  can  come  between  us  now." 

"Nothing  but  death,"  she  said,  wildly,  seizing  my 
hand,  and  clinging  to  it.  "  Oh,  my  love,  if  it  should 
come  now  —  now  —  how  could  I  bear  it  ?  Once  I  longed 
and  prayed  to  be  at  rest,  but  the  angel  of  peace  would 
not  come  to  me  ;  and  now,  when  I  want  to  live,  I  fear,  I 
tremble,  I  dread  the  grave." 

"  My  love,  my  precious  love !  why  these  gloomy 
forebodings,  just  at  the  moment  when  happiness  is 
within  our  grasp?"  I  cried,  holding  her  close  to  ray  heart. 
"You  are  better,  you  are  alraost  well.  The  doctor  says 
fio,  and  my  heart,  my  love,  you  must  be.  Our  God  is 
merciful  and  pitiful.  He  will  not  snatch  happiness  from 
us  at  the  first  taste.    He  is  not  so  greedy  for  the  misery 


442 


THR   8TOUY   OF    AX    KNTHUHIAHT. 


H   ' 


of  his  croaturoH  that  he  will  make  lis  suffer  always. 
Dorethea,  we  have  both  earned  a  respite,  ami  it  must 
oome  now.  Look  up,  sweet  love !  Do  not  mar  this 
moment  with  borrowed  sorrow.  I  am  happy ;  I  am 
hopeful.  For  a  long  time  it  has  been  night  with  me. 
Now  the  morning  has  come,  and  I  must  rejoice." 

"  But  the  shadow  of  night  is  over  me,  Felix,  and  I 
cannot  drive  it  away.  I  am  not  secure  ;  I  am  not  safe. 
You  must  not  be  too  confident,  my  poor  love." 

"  Dorethea,  you  are  a  little  nervous  and  tired  to-night. 
All  this  good  news  coming  together  has  l)pen  too  much 
for  yo»i ;  you  will  feel  better  to-morrow,"  I  said,  hope- 
fully. Then  I  tried  to  talk  of  other  things,  of  our  trip  to 
Naples,  of  the  beautiful  days  we  would  pass  together  on 
the  shores  of  that  enchanting  bay,  of  our  return  to  Eng- 
land, and  o\ir  life  at  Markland  Place  —  the  home  that 
had  been  waiting  for  tis  for  two  years. 

She  listened,  and  smiled  front  time  to  time  ;  but  still 
she  seemed  to  be  lost  in  a  sad  revery.  which  T  could  not 
dispel.  Edith  came  in  and  laughed  away  her  fears,  and 
before  I  left  her  she  was  much  brighter.  Yet,  when  I 
said  gooil-night,  she  clung  to  me  closely,  and  kissed  me 
with  sorrowful  fervor. 

Poor,  frail  darling !  I  am  afraid  she  has  been  more 
anxious  about  her  father's  decision  than  I  thought,  and, 
now  the  reaction  has  come,  she  is  a  little  upset. 

It  is  past  midnight,  and  two  hours  since  T  left  her. 
Would  to  God  it  were  morning,  so  that  T  could  know 
how  she  has  passed  the  weary  night.  I  cannot  sleep. 
I  look  out  over  the  vast  city,  so  silent  and  solemn,  I 
hear  the  plashing  of  the  fountain  and  the  plaintive  song 
of  the  nightingale  in  the  dewy  garden,  and  it  reminds 
me  of  Camille.     Poor  Camille  !  asleep  under  the  Venetian 


ilil 


T 


UHIAHT. 

US  suftVr  always. 
|)itt',  and  it  must 
Do  not  mar  this 
am  happy ;  I  am 
Ml  niglit  with  me. 
t  rejoice." 
r  ine,  Felix,  and  I 
re  ;  I  am  not  safe, 
ir  love." 

[vnd  tired  to-night, 
ms  l)een  too  much 
iw,"  I  said,  hope- 
ings,  of  our  trip  to 
I  pass  together  on 
:iur  return  to  Eng- 
—  the  home  that 

to  time  ;  but  still 
which  T  could  not 
vay  her  fears,  and 
iter.  Yet,  when  I 
sly,  and  kissed  me 

e  has  been  more 
ail  I  thought,  and, 
ttle  upset, 
s  since  T  left  her. 
that  I  could  know 
I  cannot  sleep, 
it  and  solemn.  I 
the  plaintive  song 
3n,  and  it  reminds 
mder  the  Venetian 


HANCTITARY. 


448 


sky.  And  PoIoujb!  yonder,  amid  tiie  shadow  of  that 
ruined  tomb,  keeping  his  midnight  vigil.  Oh,  life!  Oh, 
destiny  !  how  mysterious  and  solei m  thou  art !  —  as  mys- 
terious and  solemn  as  tiie  Eternity  beyond.  My  (lod  !  if 
I  should  not  be  happy  I  Is  the  black  shadow  already 
stealing  near  me  ?  Is  it  the  lonely  hour  and  Dorothea's 
sad  mood  that  have  affected  me  ?  1  wisli  my  darling  had 
not  spoken  of  the  shadow  that  rested  on  her.  I  wisli 
she  had  not  kissed  me  with  such  sorrowful  fervor. 
Hut  yonder,  in  remote  splendor,  I  see  my  serene  star 
above  the  black  cross !  It  promises  peace  after  pain. 
Sweet  star,  sweet  love,  good-night.  May  I  dream  of 
heaven  and  thee ! 

IV. 

From  Paul  Fahrien,  Rome,  to  Lionel  Brent,  Margate, 
Englimd. 

My  Dear  Friend  and  Father  :  —  How  can  I  tell  you 
of  the  sudden  desolation  and  grief  that  have  come  upon 
us.  My  heart  is  so  full  of  emotion,  and  my  nerves  so 
shattered,  that  I  can  scarcely  control  myself  enough  to 
write  intelligibly.  Laura  is  completely  prostrated,  and 
unable  to  more  than  send  you  her  best  love,  and  she  in- 
sists that  I  must  tell  you  all  from  the  beginning,  or, 
rather,  all  that  has  happened  since  she  last  wrote  to  you 
about  that  adorable  young  girl,  the  sweet  English.^an^eV 
of  our  dear  friend  Felix. 

Laura  told  you  how  her  health  had  improved  since  she 
came  to  Kome,  and  how  happy  we  were  together,  and 
how  dearly  we  had  learned  to  love  that  truly  amiable 
and  charming  young  lady.  Our  dear  Felix  had  just  re- 
ceived the  good  news  from  Paris  of  tlie  wonderful  success 


444 


TIIK  HTOUY   OF   AN    RNTIUTSrAST. 


11 


of  Ills  |)ioture,  "  Tlifl  Cliristian  Martyr."  Tlie  accounts 
of  its  veritable  triumph  havo  doubtloaa  reachotl  you  evou 
iu  England,  and  also  of  tho  satisfactory  sale  of  his 
Raphael  to  tho  KrtMudi  governuient. 

It  seemed  at  that  moment  as  if  destiny,  weary  of  per- 
secuting him,  hail  sworn  to  make  amends  for  all  her  evil 
work  by  heapiiif?  every  good  thing  on  him  at  once;  for 
directly  upon  this  satisfactory  news  from  Paris  arrives 
a  lettP"  from  Eugliind,  from  the  father  of  the  young 
lady,  consenting  at  last  that  this  long  delayed  marriage 
should  take  place. 

I  wish  I  could  picture  to  you  our  dear  Felix,  our 
much-loved  friend,  when  he  came  to  tell  me  of  the 
happy  state  of  his  affairs.  His  always  remarkable  face 
was  beaming  with  a  sort  of  splendor,  his  dark,  beautiful 
eyes  shone  like  stars,  his  whole  gracious  figure  seemed 
to  irradiate  happiness.  His  joy  transfigured  him;  he 
looked  again  the  handsome,  brilliant  youth,  who  came 
so  long  ago  eagerly  and  brightly  into  that  sombre  old 
studio  of  our  dear  master  in  Paris, 

That  evening  I  saw  them  together,  and  a  more  beauti- 
ful pair  God  never  created  out  of  the  garden  of  Eden  ; 
so  poetical,  so  gentle,  so  ideal  in  their  youth,  beauty, 
and  love,  and  both  bearing  tho  refining  spiritual  stamp 
of  those  who  have  been  purified  and  freed  from  all  dross 
by  the  hot  fires  of  the  furnace  of  affliction. 

We  spent  a  delightful  hour  with  them,  an  hour  that 
will  never  leave  my  memory,  and  when  we  left  our 
sweet  friend,  who  seemed  a  little  weary,  doubtless  from 
over-excitement  caused  by  the  good  news  they  had  re- 
ceived, she  spoke  cheerfully  of  an  excursion  we  had 
planned  for  the  next  day,  and  bade  us  a  charming  au 
revoir  with  friendly  words  and  bright  smiles. 


fciitmn 


—  m "I  iiimaiiw' 


TiirsiAsr. 

rtyr."  The  accounts 
It'aa  reac^hod  you  evou 
isf.'ictory  salo  of  his 

[estiiiy,  weary  of  per- 
iiiouds  for  all  her  evil 
on  him  at  onco;  for 
ra  from  Taris  arrives 
father  of  the  young 
ong  delayed  marriage 

our  dear  Felix,  our 
e  to  tell  me  of  t\w 
ways  remarkable  face 
)r,  his  dark,  beautiful 
racious  figure  seemed 
transfigured  him;  he 
ant  youth,  who  came 
into  that  sombre  old 

!r,  and  a  more  beauti- 
the  garden  of  Eden  ; 
their  youth,  beauty, 
imng  spiritual  stamp 
(1  freed  from  all  dross 
Hiction. 

1  them,  an  hour  that 
d  when  we  left  our 
weary,  doubtless  from 
ad  news  they  had  re- 
in excursion  we  had 
le  us  a  charming  au 
;ht  smiles. 


HANfTfAKV. 


Wfi 


Thf  next  morning  [  was  in  my  stuilio,  waiting  for  the 
carriage  wliich  was  to  pick  us  up  on  its  way  to  the  hotel, 
when  Mr.  Lorrinior  entered  Ii'irriedly  and  wild-tyc'd,  and 
in  a  truly  ileplorablo  condition.  It  was  lonie  moments 
before  ho  could  speak,  and  then  his  words  sounded  like 
Bobs : — 

"  Oh,  my  friend  !  Oh,  (}od  !  how  can  I  say  it !  She 
is  dead !  Dorothea  is  dead,  and  how  can  we  toll  Felix  ?  " 

"  Dead !  "  I  echoed  ;  "  when  ?  " 

"Now.  This  moment.  I  rushed  to  you  to  help  me 
with  my  cousin." 

Mon  Dicu!  what  a  shock!  I  tried  to  be  calm,  to 
think  what  was  best  to  do. 

"Compose  yourself,  dear  friend,  and  tell  mo  how  it 
happened." 

"  It  was  awfully  sudden  ;  in  an  instant  she  was  gone. 
You  remember  she  was  not  so  strong  last  evening ;  she 
seemed  a  little  oppressed,  and  Felix  must  have  been  dis- 
turbed by  it,  for  at  an  early  hour  he  sent  a  message  to 
her  maid,  to  inquire  how  she  had  rested  through  the 
night.  Dorothea  was  already  awake  and  very  bright, 
asked  for  her  blotting-book,  and  wrote  him  a  note.  Her 
maid  says  she  was  very  cheerful,  and  talked  and  laughed 
a  great  deal  while  she  was  being  dressed.  After  break- 
fast, which  was  unusually  merry,  she  went  to  her  room 
to  prepare  for  our  drive  ;  as  she  left  Edith  she  remarked 
that  she  wished  to  surprise  Felix  when  he  came.  How 
little  she  thought  of  the  significance  of  her  words. 

"My  wife  was  busy  addressing  letters,  when  she  was 
startled  by  a  scream  from  the  maid,  and,  rushing  into 
the  room,  found  the  woman  supporting  Dorothea,  who 
only  looked  at  her  and  smiled.  She  never  spoke  nor 
moved.    They  thought  she  had  fainted.    They  laid  her 


mtummm--^ 


446 


THK  8T0EY  OP  AN   ENTHIJSIAST. 


lis 


on  a  sofa  and  summoned  me.  I  could  not  think  she  was 
dead,  until  the  doctor  told  us  that  all  was  over.  But  I 
am  only  thinking  of  Felix;  he  may  be  there  at  any 
moment.     How  shall  we  prepare  him  ?     How  shall  we 

tell  him?" 

I  was  benumbed  and  stupefied,  and  altogether  unfat  tor 
the  awful  emergency.  I  could  only  repeat  Mr.  Lorri- 
nier's  words,  "  How  shall  we  tell  him  ?  " 

"We  must  find  him.  AVe  must  intercept  him  before 
he  reaches  the  hotel,  and  hears  it  abruptly,"  cried  Mr. 
Lorrimer.     "  Come  with  me  to  his  studio." 

I  took  my  hat  and  we  went  out.  As  we  crossed  the 
square  and  mounted  the  steps,  it  seemed  as  if  that  great 
space  was  hung  with  black  drapery.  It  is  incredible, 
the  sudden  and  appalling  change  that  a  man  experiences 
at  such  a  moment,  and  I  found  myself  thinking,  "  If  the 
world  has  turned  dark  to  me,  what  will  it  be  to  my 

friend?" 

We  met  him  bounding  down  his  stairs,  bright  and  ]oy- 
ous,  like  a  bridegroom  coming  forth  from  his  chamber. 
It  is  strange  that  he  did  not  notice  our  faces  directly, 
but  he  was  so  enveloped  in  his  happiness  that  just  at 
first  the  cloud  around  us  could  not  dim  his  sunlight. 
He  shook  hands  warmly.  He  spoke  of  the  beauty  of 
the  day.  He  laughed  joyously,  glancing  at  the  heavens 
and  over  the  sunny  square,  and  we  were  silent, 
ominously  silent.  Suddenly,  a  freezing  wind  seemed  to 
pass  over  him,  arresting  the  smile:  on  his  lips  and 
quenching  the  light  in  his  eyes.  He  looked  slowly 
from  one  to  the  other  inquiringly,  but  not  fearfully ;  he 
tried  to  speak,  but  his  white  lips  framed  no  word.  He 
raised  his  hand,  which  did  not  tremble,  and  pointed 
across  the  square  toward  the  hotel. 


SIAST. 

ot  think  she  was 

ras  over.     But  I 

»e  there  at  any 

How  shall  we 

;ogether  unfit  for 
speat  Mr.  Lorri- 

•cept  him  before 
iptly,"  cried  Mr. 

0." 

5  we  crossed  the 
I  as  if  that  great 
It  is  incredible, 
man  experiences 
thinking,  "  If  the 
rill  it  be  to  my 

3,  bright  and  joy- 
om  his  chamber, 
ur  faces  directly, 
less  that  just  at 
lim  his  sunlight, 
of  the  beauty  of 
ig  at  the  heavens 
we  were  silent, 
f  wind  seemed  to 
on  his  lips  and 
[e  looked  slowly 
not  fearfully ;  he 
,ed  no  word.  He 
ible,  and  pointed 


in^JM.ftLia'M^WIII* 


SANCTUARY. 


Mr.  Lorrimer  followed  the  motion  with  haggard  eyes, 
and  said,  with  a  pitiful  effort  to  speak  calmly :  "  She  is 
not  sulfering ;  she  is  better.  We  came  to  take  you  to 
her." 

Without  a  word  he  waved  us  away  and  strode  with 
strong,  swift  steps  down  the  long  flight  to  the  square 
below,  and  to  the  hotel,  so  rapidly  that  we  could  scarce 
follow  ;'  and  with  such  an  air  of  grim  determination,  like 
a  warrior  about  to  engage  in  deadly  conflict  with  a  hated 
foe.  I  think  at  that  moment  he  was  sustained  by  the 
thought  that  she  was  struggling  with  her  only  enemy 
—  sweet,  frail  creature !  —  and  that  he  could  rescue  her. 
Yes ;  I  think  he  thought  that  his  love  could  snatch  her 
from  death. 

My  dear  friena  and  father,  I  never  wish  to  look  upon 
such  a  harrowing  scene  again.  Even,  now  my  heart 
bleeds  tc  i^hink  of  it.  With  the  same  grim,  fierce  air  he 
approached  the  room  where  tlie  stricken  flower  lay, 
dressed  like  a  spring  blossom  in  sweet,  pale  colors. 
She  lay  as  she  had  fallen,  cut  down  by  the  relentless 
reaper.  Mrs.  Lorrimer  held  the  soft,  cold  hands ;  and 
her  maid,  who  had  nursed  her  when  a  babe,  stroked  the 
golden  floss  on  her  pretty  head.  Our  poor  Felix  took 
in  the  sad  scene  in  one  fierce,  sombre  glance,  and,  sternly 
waving  them  all  away,  he  fell  on  his  knees  beside  her, 
with  a  long,  shuddering,  convulsive  groan,  the  first 
sound  that  passed  his  pale  lips. 

We  could  not  remain  to  witness  such  grief.  It  was 
sacred  to  him  and  God.  We  all  came  out  softly  and 
closed  the  door  on  him  and  his  dead.  In  a  few  moments 
our  dear  Laura  came  flying  to  comfort  Mrs.  Lorrimer ; 
and  La  Santa,  who  looked  as  much  like  an  angel  as  the 
dead  g  irl,  came  also,  with  her  mother ;  and  we  sat  there, 


448 


THE  STOUY  OF   AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


a  stricken  group  in  that  pretty  salon,  where  we  had 
been  so  merry  the  evening  before;  waiting,  waiting, 
and  what  for?  We  could  not  hope  that  time  would 
bring  relief  to  that  awful  sorrow.  There  was  no  sound 
from  the  chamber  of  death.  Some  one  must  intrude 
upon  its  dread  silence ;  and  we  all  shrank  from  the 
mournful  duty  of  taking  him  from  her  cherished  clay. 

After  some  time  La  Santa  said,  softly,  "I  will  go  to 
him.  I  think  I  can  persuade  him  to  leave  her  now." 
She  opened  the  door,  glanced  into  the  room,  and  then 
looked  back  with  a  surprised  face,  "He  is  not  here!" 
she  said.   "  He  is  gone  ! " 

It  was  too  true  —he  was  gone;  he  had  left  the  room 
while  we  were  waiting,  and  the  lovely  dead  lay  there 
alone.  With  his  pocket-knife  he  had  severed  a  thick 
tress  of  her  bright  hair  —  all  that  could  go  with  him  — 
and  had  left  her  there,  smiling  like  a  child  in  its  sleep ; 
with  the  fair  morning  stealing  through  the  curtains, 
and  the  busy  murmur  of  life  without  in  the  great  sunny 

square. 

I  had  not  intended  to  allow  our  friend  out  of  my  sight 
until  I  knew  how  his  trouble  affected  him.  Therefore, 
it  was  a  great  shock  to  me  to  find  that  he  was  gone,  I 
knew  not  whither.  His  first  reception  of  the  evil  tid- 
ings surprised  me,  for  I  expected  a  violent  burst  of 
emotion,  from  one  so  impulsive  and  passionate.  I 
thought  his  grief  would  be  wild  and  furious,  and  that  it 
would  require  all  our  moral  strength  to  cope  with  it  and 
calm  it.  And  I  even  feared  that,  in  the  first  frenzy  of 
the  shock,  he  might  attempt  some  mad  act.  But  his 
stony  silence,  his  grim,  determined  spirit,  puzzled  me. 

"You  must  find  him,"  said  Mr.  Lorrimer,  uneasily. 
« I  am  alarmed  at  his  leaving  us  in  this  way." 


lUSlAST. 

lo7i,  where  we  had 
waiting,  waiting, 
3  that  time  would 
here  was  no  sound 
1  one  must  intrude 
1  shrank  from  the 
iv  cherished  clay. 
iftly,  "I  will  go  to 
;o  leave  her  now." 
he  room,  and  then 
'He  is  not  here!" 

had  left  the  room 
,rely  dead  lay  there 
ad  severed  a  thick 
)uld  go  with  him  — 
,  child  in  its  sleep ; 
rough  the  curtains, 
;  in  the  great  sunny 

lend  out  of  my  sight 
3d  him.  Therefore, 
hat  he  was  gone,  I 
ion  of  the  evil  tid- 

a  violent  burst  of 
and    passionate.      I 

furious,  and  that  it 
I  to  cope  with  it  and 
a  the  first  frenzy  of 
J  mad  act.  But  his 
spirit,  puzzled  me. 

Lorrimer,  uneasily, 
this  way." 


SANCTUARY. 


449 


"Go  to  his  apartment,"  whispered  Laura;  "perhaps 
he  has  gone  there  to  be  alone." 

I  followed  Laura's  suggestion,  and  hastened  to  his 
apartment ;  but  he  had  not  been  there.  I  then  searched 
his  favorite  haunts,  the  Medici  garden,  the  Pincio, 
the  Villa  Borghese,  every  place  where  I  thought  he 
might  be  found.  All  day  I  wandered  about  in  this 
weary  search,  and  after  dark  I  went  again  to  the  Trin- 
ata  di  Monti.  "  He  has  not  returned,"  said  the  padrona, 
sadly. 

"  Let  me  know  the  moment  he  comes  in.  I  am  very 
anxious." 

The  padrona  promised ;  and  from  there  I  turned  my 
steps  toward  the  hotel,  where  they  were  keeping  a 
mournful  vigil  over  the  dear  dead.  I  hoped  he  might 
return  there  to  watch  by  her  side  through  the  long 
night ;  but  he  never  saw  her  again.  The  next  morning 
they  carried  her  to  that  peaceful  burial-place  near  the 
tomb  of  Caius  Sestius;  and  there  her  heart-broken 
friends  left  her  to  sleep  forever. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lorrimer  are  quite  overcome  with  grief ; 
not  only  for  the  sudden  and  cruel  death  of  that  adorable 
young  girl,  but  also  at  the  disappearance  of  our  poor 
Felix,  who,  they  feav,  has  put  an  end  to  his  sad  life. 

Jt  is  now  the  third  day,  and  we  have  not  discovered  a 
trace  of  him.  He  has  disappeared  mysteriously  and 
completely.  We  have  private  detectives  searching  for 
him ;  and  all  the  machinery  of  the  government  is  se- 
cretly in  motion.  All  has  been  done  that  can  be  done  ; 
and  now  we  can  only  wait  patiently  —  for  what,  God 
only  knows.  Our  hearts  are  very  heavy,  and  we  need 
you  anc"  our  dear  mother  greatly  during  this  sad  time. 
I  can  write  no  more  now ;  but  the  tirst  tidings  we  have 


450 


THE  STORY  OP  AN  ENTHUSIAST. 


I  shall  hasten  to  send  you ;  until  then  we  cai:  onlj'  pray 
to  God  for  our  unhappy  friend. 


,J 


From  Paul  Fahrien,  to  Lionel  Brent,  Margate,  Eng- 
land. 

My  Dear  Friend  and  Father:  —  What  I  have  to 
write  to  you  now  is  so  strange  and  mysterious  that 
sometimes  I  think  I  have  been  dreaming  and  am  not  yet 
awake. 

When  I  despatched  my  letter  to  you  yesterday,  I  did 
not  think  another  would  follow  it  so  soon ;  but,  knoAving 
how  anxious  you  will  be  to  hear  further  news  of  this  sad 
event,  I  will  not  prolong  your  suspense  by  waiting 
another  day. 

Early  this  morning,  before  we  were  awake,  a  message 
came  from  the  Trinata  di  Monte,  that  our  unhappy  friend 
had  returned  during  the  night,  and  was  very  ill.  I 
arose,  dressed  hurriedly,  and  hastened  to  him.  When  I 
entered  his  apartment,  I  found  Mr.  Lorrimer  and  the 
doctor  already  there,  and  our  poor  friend  stretched  ou 
his  bed  in  a  profound  stupor. 

Where  had  he  been  ?  and  how  had  he  returned  ?  Mr. 
Lorrimer  questioned  the  padrona,  who  did  not  seem  to 
be  very  communicative.  She  said  that  the  Signor 
always  carried  his  own  key,  and  that  during  the  night 
she  was  awakened  by  some  one  entering,  and  directly 
after  she  heard  voices  in  the  studio. 

"Then,  some  one  was  with  him.  Who  was  with 
him  ?  " 

She  did  not  know,  she  thought  it  was  some  of  the 
Signor's  friends  who  had  brought  him  back.     For  some 


_ 


SIA8T. 

we  cai:  onlj'  pray 

I 
Margate,  Eng- 

What  I  have  to 
mysterious  that 
g  and  am  not  yet 

yesterday,  I  did 
jn ;  but,  knoAving 
•  news  of  this  sad 
ense  by   waiting 

awake,  a  message 
\v  unhappy  friend 
was  very  ill.  I 
to  him.  When  I 
jorrimer  and  the 
lend  stretched  on 

lie  returned  ?  Mr. 
did  not  seem  to 
that  the  Signor 
during  the  night 
ring,  and  directly 

Who  was   with 

was  some  of  the 
back.     For  some 


Wll!)ii_>!i|pii»yn|iiii|iii^Biyw  ^ii  iii6|i,fiui»wii»t>wi  >i>*»i|H!Pli>lim>iitpii 


8ANCTUAUV. 


451 


time  the  Signor  talked  very  loud  and  seemed  much  ex- 
cited, while  the  person  with  liim  was  trying  to  soothe 
and  quiet  him.  She  did  not  think  she  was  needed,  so 
she  did  not  enter  the  apartment,  and  after  a  while  i^  was 
very  quiet  and  she  went  to  sleep,  and  as  soon  as  it  was 
daylight,  she  sent  word  to  me  and  to  the  Signor  Lujlese 
as  she  had  been  L»id  to  do. 

Mr.  Lorrimer  had  entered  the  room  first.  He  found 
his  cousin  undressed  in  bed,  and  in  the  same  heavy 
stupor  that  I  found  him  in.  His  clothes  were  carefully 
folded  and  laid  on  a  chair  near  his  bed,  but  we  noticed 
that  tliey  were  covered  with  a  sort  of  white  dust  like 
powdered  marble,  such  as  is  seen  among  the  piles  of 
sand  thrown  out  of  the  different  excavations. 

He  must  have  been  wandering  over  the  Campagna  and 
stumbled  into  some  of  the  abandoned  excavations ;  or, 
like  a  poor  wounded  creature,  in  his  bewilderment  he 
has  tried  to  hide  among  the  ruins,  and  some  one  has 
found  him  and  brought  him  back.  Yet  this  does  not 
seem  reasonable.  There  is  something  about  it  that  I 
cannot  understand. 

Had  a  peasant  found  him  wandering  about  the  coun- 
try ill,  and  in  a  stat(i  of  mental  aberration,  and  by 
chance  discovered  who  he  was,  he  would  have  summoned 
the  padrona,  and  given  the  unfortunate  man  into  her 
care,  and  claimed  some  reward  for  bringing  him  back. 

But  this  is  not  all  that  is  surprising  and  confusing. 
While  the  doctor  was  still  with  us,  and  before  we  had 
solved  the  mystery  of  our  friend's  disappearance  and 
strange  return,  the  agent  from  France  was  announced. 

Mr.  Lorrimer  asked  me  to  receive  him  in  the  studio, 
and  to  explain,  as  far  as  was  necessary,  the  present  state 
of  affairs.     M.  BJ-uic,  the  agent,  regretted  greatly  that 


-J 


T 


462 


THE    8TOKY   OF  AN  ENTHUSIAST. 


m 


the  transfer  of  the  picture  could  not  take  place  at  once,  aa 
be  was  very  anxious  to  return  to  I'avis  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble. I  asked  for  a  few  hours  to  confer  with  Mr.  Lorri- 
mer,  when  we  would  decide  what  steps  to  take  in  case. 
our  friend  did  not  recover  consciousness  during  the  day, 
which  M,  lilanc  politely  granted,  and,  as  he  was  leaving, 
be  expressed  a  wish  to  see  the  picture  that  he  had  come 
to  purchase, 

I  did  not  know  where  to  find  the  key.  Uut  on  search- 
ing the  clothes  that  Felix  wore  last,  I  discovered  it  in' 
the  inner  pocket  of  his  waistcoat.  It  was  some  time  be- 
fore I  could  unfasten  the  lock,  for,  as  you  know,  it  is 
very  intricate.  However,  I  accomplished  it  at  last,  and 
threw  back  the  cover  with  a  Reeling  of  relief,  when,  to 
my  astonishment,  I  found  the  box  empty.  The  picture 
was  gone  ;  clean  taken  from  the  frame,  and  on  the  back 
of  the  box  was  written  with  white  chalk. 

"  The  Ba2)hael  is  in  a  2>l(tc<i  of  safety,  and  will  be  re- 
turned when  our  unhajjpi/  friend  recovers  his  reason. 

"  To-night,  in  his  frenzy  he  would  have  destroyed  it, 
had  I  not  prevented  him.'" 

You  can  easily  imagine  my  surprise  and  consternation. 
I  could  not  speak  for  some  moments,  but  stood  stupidly 
staring  at  the  agent. 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?  "  he  asked,  reading  the  words 
on  the  box,  while  he  looked  over  my  shoulder. 

"  God  knows  !  "  I  replied. 

"  Some  one  has  stolen  the  picture,  and  Avritten  that  to 
prevent  immediate  action,"  said  M.  Blanc. 

"  Possibly.  But  there  is  a  mystery  which  I  must  try 
to  fathom." 

"There  is  always  mystery  about  a  robbery  of  such 
magnitude." 


L    .. 


lUSIAST. 

ke  place  at  once,  as 
i  as  soon  as  possi- 
ir  with  Mr.  Lorri- 
)s  to  take  in  case, 
ss  during  the  day, 
as  he  was  leaving, 
that  he  had  come 

y.  lint  on  search- 
I  discovered  it  in 
was  some  time  be- 
s  yon  know,  it  is 
hed  it  at  last,  and 
of  relief,  when,  to 
pty.  The  picture 
i,  and  on  the  back 
,1k. 

ity,  and  will  be  re- 
wers  his  reason, 
have  destroyed  it, 

and  consternation, 
but  stood  stupidly 

reading  the  words 
ilioulder. 

ud  Avritten  that  to 
lane, 
which  I  must  try 

t  robbery  of  such 


SANCTUAUY. 


453 


The  agent  seemed  half  puzzled  and  half  angry ;  nmch 
as  though  he  considered  himself  the  victim  of  a  stupen- 
dous jest. 

I  immediately  sent  for  Mr.  Lorrimer  and  the  padrona 
to  come  to  the  studio.  You  know  the  imdrona  is  a  very 
respectable  woman,  and  I  could  not  suspect  her  of  com- 
plicity in  the  affair. 

When  she  entered,  I  asked  her  quietly  if  any  one  had 
been  in  the  Signor's  studio  during  his  absence. 

"  No  one,"  she  replied,  positively. 

"  Are  you  sure  ?  It  is  very  important  for  you  to  re- 
member." 

"  Yes,  signove,  I  am  sure ;  no  one  has  a  key,  and  no 
one  could  enter  beside  the  signor  unless  I  opened  the 
door.  But  why  do  you  inquire  so  closely  ?  Is  any 
thing  wrong  ?  " 

"  The  Raphael  is  gone,"  I  replied,  looking  her  steadily 
in  the  eyes ;  "  a  thief  has  entered  during  Mr.  Markland's 
absence,  opened  the  box,  and  taken  the  picture  out  of 
the  frame." 

"  Impossible,  signore  !  No  one  could  open  that  box 
without  the  key ;  and  the  signor  always  carried  it  with 
him." 

While  she  spoke,  I  studied  her  face  closely,  and  I  saw 
that  she  was  evading  the  truth.  "  You  know  more  than 
you  will  tell,"  I  said,  sternly.  "You  know  who  was 
with  the  signor  last  night." 

«  Dio  mio !  how  should  I  know  ?  " 

"  I  will  send  for  an  officer,  and  he  will  help  you  to 
know ;  unless  you  save  yourself  the  disgrace  and  trouble, 
by  making  a  clean  breast  of  it." 

"I  have  never  been  suspected  before,"  she  cried, 
bursting  into  tears.     "Oh,  signore!  don't  send  for  an 


1       ^ 


454 


THE   STORY  OF  AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


officer  and  I  will  tell  you  all  I  know.  I  was  wrong  not 
to  tell  you  at  first ;  but  I  thought  you  would  blame  me 
for  not  sending  last  night,  as  soon  as  the  signor  re- 
turned. I  swear  to  you,  by  the  ^[other  of  God,  that  I 
will  tell  you  the  whole  truth.  When  I  heard  tlie  loud 
voices  in  the  studio,  I  got  out  of  my  bed  and  went 
softly  to  the  door  to  listen.  It  was  the  signor,  and  ho 
was  talking  very  violently  in  French.  I  don't  under- 
stand that  language  well ;  and  I  could  not  make  out  all 
he  said ;  but,  as  far  as  I  could  hear,  he  wished  to  do 
some  harm  to  the  Raphael ;  and  the  [peraon  with  him 
was  trying  to  calm  and  persuade  him.  The  signor  was 
furious,  wild,  and  his  friend  was  always  trying  to  con- 
trol him.  I  heard  the  heavy  easel  fall  on  the  floor,  and 
there  was  a  great  struggle.  Then,  gradually,  all  became 
quiet;  and  soon  after  I  heard  the  signor  in  his  room, 
preparing  for  bed.  I  could  not  sleep  any  more ;  and  I 
was  curious  to  see  who  was  with  the  signor,  as  the 
voice  was  strange  and  very  sad  and  gentle.  So  I 
watched  until  nearly  dawn ;  when,  at  last,  I  heard  some 
one  come  out  softly,  and  descend  the  stairs.  The  light  on 
the  landing  was  very  feeble,  for  the  oil  was  nearly  burnt 
out ;  but,  through  the  aperture  in  the  door,  I  could  see 
his  white  robe  plainly.  It  was  a  saccone !  and  he 
looked  so  tall  and  ghostly  that  I  was  afraid,  and  crept 
to  my  bed.  And,  signore,  he  must  have  carried  the 
picture  away  with  him,  for  he  had  a  large  bundle, 
wrapped  in  a  piece  of  the  dark  drapery  that  hangs  in 
the  signor's  studio.  Now,  as  God  hears  me,  I  have  told 
you  the  truth ;  and  you  must  not  blame  me  about  the 
Raphael.  My  only  fault  is  that  I  did  not  send  the  mo- 
ment the  signor  returned.  I  would  have  done  so,  had  he 
come  alone ;  but  I  thought  some  friend  was  with  him." 


U8IA8T. 

I  wap  wrong  not 
would  blame  me 
as  the  signer  re- 
er  of  God,  that  I 
I  heard  the  loud 
ay  Led  and   went 
lie  signor,  and  ho 
1.     I  don't  under- 
not  make  out  all 
he  wished  to  do 
[peraon  with  hira 
The  signor  was 
ys  trying  to  con- 
[  on  the  floor,  and 
dually,  all  became 
gnor  in  his  room, 
any  more ;  and  I 
lie    signor,  as  the 
id  gentle.      So   I 
last,  I  heard  some 
lirs.    The  light  on 
I  was  nearly  burnt 
door,  I  could  see 
saccone !   and  he 
afraid,  and  crept 
have  carried  the 
i  a  large   bundle, 
jry  that  hangs  in 
rs  me,  I  have  told 
ime  me  about  the 
not  send  the  mo- 
ve done  so,  had  he 
i  was  with  him." 


SANCTUARY. 


466 


The  paJronu's  story  agrees  so  exactly  with  what  is 
written  on  the  box  that  I  cannot  doubt  her  statement. 
Hut  who  is  this  saci-one?  Is  he  the  same  penitent  who 
followed  the  Princess  Natilika,  and  who  is  suspected  of 
that  midnight  crime ;  and,  if  so,  how  is  he  connected 
with  Felix  ?  and  how  does  it  happen  that  he  brings  him 
back  ?  My  dear  friend,  you  see  how  we  are  surrounded 
with  mystery.  God  knows,  I  wish  you  were  here  to 
help  u,s.  In  the  meantime,  our  poor  friend  lies  in  a 
heavy  stupor,  which  resembles  death  more  than  sleep. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lorrimer,  with  Madam  Raymond  and 
Ang61ique,  are  beside  his  bed,  doing  all  that  possibly 
can  be  done  at  present  to  alleviate  his  sad  condition. 
Adieu,  until  further  developments. 

VI. 

Paul  Fahrien  to  Lionel  Brent. 
My  Dear  Friend  and  Father:  — I  have  deferred 
writing  for  two  wtcks,  hoping  each  day  to  have  some- 
thing satisfactory  to  communicate  about  the  condition  of 
our  poor  friend.     It  is  really   deplorable  to  think  of. 
Although  he  has  recovered  consciousness,  and  is  restored 
to  some  degree  of  health,  his  mind  is  sadly  clouded  and 
confused.     He   seems  to  recognize  those  around  him, 
but  only  for  brief  intervals.     He  remains  in  his  apart- 
ment,  pacing    the  floor    slowly    and    thoughtfully  or 
looking  for  hours  from  the  window,  out  into  the  busy 
square,  which  he  does  not  seem  to   see.    He  is  very 
gentle  and  tractable,  and  consents  to  the  wishes  of  his 
friends  with  a  docility  which  is  truly  pathetic  to  wit- 
ness.    His  beautiful  face  is  very  pale  and  fixed  in  ex- 
pression ;  and  his  eyes  have  an  introspective,  mournful 


450 


TllK   STOHY   OF   AN    KNTHU81AMT. 


M» 


look  as  if  he  were  coiiteinpliiting  his  interior  niin.  He 
Beklom  speaks,  and  never  smiles  ;  often  he  looks  ear- 
nestly at  Mr.  Lorrimer,  and  calls  him  by  name  ;  ami  then 
makes  some  remark  which  shows  that  his  mind  has  gone 
back  to  his  boyhood.  .  .  . 

At  times  he  seizes  pen  and  paper  and  writes  for 
hours  — swiftly,  eagerly,  intently.  Tiu-n  he  i)ores  over 
what  he  has  written  ;  and,  at  last,  tears  it  into  fragments 
and  casts  it  aside  witli  a  mournful  sigh.  Ho  never 
speaks  of  the  llaphael.  In  fact,  he  does  not  remember 
that  he  ever  had  it  in  his  po3S(>ssion.  The  easel  and 
empty  box  have  been  put  out  of  sight,  and  there  is  noth- 
ing to  rerauid  him  of  it.  The  lirst  time  he  entered  his 
studio  after  that  terrible  night,  he  stood  for  a  moment 
irresolutely  on  the  threshold,  looked  around  with  an  ap- 
prehensive glance,  pressed  his  hand  to  his  head,  and 
seemed  to  be  trying  to  recover  some  train  of  thought 
that  was  slipping  away  from  him ;  then  the  brief  light 
went  out  of  his  eyes,  and  his  face  settled  again  into  its 
fixed,  hopeless  expression.  .  .  . 

The  mystery  attending  the  disappearance  of  the 
Raphael  still  remains  a  mystery.  For  some  time  I 
looked  daily  for  its  return ;  clinging  to  the  hope  that  it 
had  been  taken  away  by  the  ghostly  penitent  for  the 
reason  he  gave,  and  that  when  he  saw  lit  he  would 
bring  it  back.  Of  course,  it  has  been  an  interesting  prol)- 
lem  for  the  police ;  all  the  detective  skill  of  the  Ponti- 
ficat  has  been  employed,  but  so  far  nothing  has  been 
accomplished.  The  picture  has  disappeared  in  the  most 
inscrutable  way,  and  for  no  reasonable  motive.  .  .  . 

M.  Blanc  remained  in  Rome  for  a  week,  and  then 
went  back  to  Paris  without  the  treasure  he  had  come 
for.      To  the  last  he  insisted   that    it  was    a  clever 


".tWglft 


U8IA8T. 

uterior  ruin.  Ho 
■ten  he  looks  ear- 
ly  name  ;  ami  then 

Uis  iniiid  lia.s  gone 

I 

■r  and  writes  for 
luMi  lui  i)ores  over 
s  it  into  fragments 
sigh.  He  never 
oes  not  remember 
1.  The  easel  and 
and  there  is  noth- 
me  he  entered  his 
ood  for  a  moment 
round  with  an  ap- 
to  his  liead,  and 
!  train  of  thought 
en  the  brief  light 
led  again  into  its 

ppearanee  of  the 
For  some  time  I 
0  the  hope  that  it 
r  penitent  for  the 
saw  fit  lie  would 
LU  interesting  prol)- 
skill  of  the  Ponti- 
nothing  has  been 
peared  in  tlie  most 
!  motive.  .  .  . 
a  week,  and  then 
sure  he  had  come 
it  was    a  clever 


BANCtrARY. 


457 


robbery  ;  but  still  he  was  obliged  to  confess  that  it 
could  not  be  for  t^ain,  as  the  thief  would  never  daro  to 
offer  for  sale  a  picture  as  well  known  all  over  Europe  as 
the  head  with  the  black  berretta. 

I  suppose  you  have  read  in  the  French  and  English 
journals  tlie  account  of  its  disappearance,  whici  add;' 
another  interesting  chapter  to  the  atrangc  history  of  this 
remarkable  picture. 

From  I'd  id  Fubrien,  Home,  to  M.  Ingres,  Paris. 

Mv  Dkak  Fhiknd  and  Mastkk  ;  -  In  answer  to  your 
inquiries  abcmt  our  unhappy  friend,  I  can  only  tell  you 
that  perhaps  tliere  is  a  little  change  for  the  l-'tter.  At 
times  he  seems  inclined  to  talk,  and  last  evening,  wliile 
I  was  sittin;?  ak.ne  with  him,  lie  suddenly  spoke  of 
]*olon8e, — you  reii'  -uber  him,  our  favorite  model  in 
Paris,  —  and  said  thuL  he,  I'olonse,  had  found  a  sanctuary 
among  the  tombs.  Certainly  I  know  that  his  mind  was 
wandering,  as  :.U  his  remarks  were  incoherent  and  dis- 
connected; but  he  seemed  to  dwell  on  that  one  idea, 
that  sanctuary  among  the  tombs. 

It  was  melancholy  and  touching  in  the  extreme,  and 
there  was  little  to  encourage  one  in  his  fitful,  mournful 
words ;  still,  to  me,  it  shows  a  return  to  feeling.  If  I 
could  see  that  he  suffered,  I  should  hope  for  him.  ... 

There  is  no  news  of  the  Raphael ;  I  fear  that  it  is 
gone  again  into  oblivion.  Was  there  ever  so  strange  a 
history  connected  with  any  work  of  art  ?  I  have  often 
thought  that  many  pictures  could  tell  remarkable  stories 
if  they  could  speak,  but  surely  none  have  had  a  more 
wonderful  history  than  this  work  of  the  divine 
master.  ... 

This  morning  he  took  La  Santa's  hand,  and,  looking 


.1  .totjMiriiilliMMSiWMfa 


!-zs=r=r.Bca 


fe. 


458  Till',    HTOUV   OK   AN    r.NTHUSIAHT. 

into  hry  face  with  a  gleam  ol'  intelligence,  he  sai.l,  softly 
and  o;.  .!  ousiy,  as  though  he  feared  to  be  overheard, 
"  You  \i,./e  s.  rfered.  Come  with  me  to  the  aan<!tuar3' of 
sorrow.     It  is  so  ([uiet,  so  peaceful,  among  the  toniha." 

Angeli^ue  turned  away  to  hide  her  tears,  but  he  ftill 
clung  to  her  hand  with  gentle  insisteuce,  ^xu\  repeated, 
"Come  with  me,  and  we  will  weep  tog'^^ier." 

Sometimes  he  goes  into  his  studio,  and  sets  to  work 
regularly  and  rationally,  and  one,  to  see  him  then,  would 
never  dream  that  his  poor  mind  was  so  cl-uded.  He 
wiV  ^uaw  rapidly  and  correcdy  a  face,  a  figure,  some 
wei'.'  conceit.  Then  he  will  study  it  closely,  ^itli  a 
severely  critical  air,  and  finally,  frowning  impatiently, 
he  v/ill  obliterate  it,  and  begin  again.  .     ■ 

All  the  eminent  physicians  here  arc  studying  his  casb 
carefully,  and  all  give  us  hope  that  in  time  this  dark 
cloud  will  disperse,  and  his  mind  will  be  clear  again, 
and  they  all  agree  that  it  is  better  to  allow  him  to  follow 
his  own  inclinations,  as  far  as  it  is  safe  to  do  so,  without 
restraint  or  control.  We  have  found  an  excellent  man 
to  watch  over  him,  and  Madam  Raymond  and  La  Santa 
are  devoted  to  him.  I  will  let  you  know  of  his  condi- 
tion from  time  to  time,  and  trust  that  the  next  letter 
may  tell  of  greater  iniproveiuent. 

Pray  with  us  for  the  restoration  of  his  splendid  genius, 
that  it  may  again  ennoble  and  gladden  the  world. 

From  Fanl  Fair  leu. to  Lionel  Brent. 
My  Dear  Fkiknd  and  Father:  - 1  know  how  much 
interested  you  are  in  all  that  concerns  our  poor  Felix. 
Therefore  I  hasten  to  tell  you  of  an  incident  that  may 
throw  some  light  on  the  mysterious  disappearance  of  the 
Raphael.    I  have  recently  learned,  from  a  private  but 


■^Mfe;, 


I«IA8T. 


CO,  he  Biiicl,  softly 
to  be  ovcih'jard, 
)  tho  aaut^tiiiiry  of 
unit  tho  toiiiha." 
teiirs,  but  hfi  ntiU 
ice,  'iiitl  repeated, 

and  sets  to  work 
e  him  iUeii,  wouhl 
,  80  cl'ivuled.  lie 
,ce,  a  tigvire,  some 
it  closely,  with  a 
niiiig  impatiently, 

studyiup  his  case 
i»  time  this  dark 
ill  be  clear  again, 
illow  him  to  follow 
e  to  do  80,  without 

an  excellent  man 
lond  and  I^a  Santa 
know  of  his  condi- 
lat  the  next  letter 

liis  splendid  genius, 
n  the  world. 

•I  Breiit. 

- 1  know  how  much 
rnb  our  poor  Felix. 
,  incident  that  may 
lisappearance  of  the 
from  a  private  but 


r--mM^^^^^^»^, 


vfiimmmm  t'l^'f^ty 


N^^ 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


I.I 


laiza  12.5 

■x  lU   12.2 

S  Hi  "■ 
LLS. 


m 


:  '•      ■ 

L25  II  1.4 

m 

■» 6"     - 

► 

«' 


Photographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


•y 


23  WiST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)«72-4503 


1 


•s? 


\ 


^ 


>v 


"^ 


) 


% 


<^ 


«• 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


t 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


jfc- 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


^ 


."ss-r^s^r^x'si^t 


SANCTUAUY. 


459 


reliable  source,  that  some  mouths  ago,  about  the  time 
the  picture  was  taken,  a  mysterious  character,  dressed  in 
the  robe  of  a  Dominican  monk,  was  arrested  on  the  sus- 
picion of  his  being  the  assassin  ttf  the  Princciss  Natilika. 

On  being  interrogated,  he  refused  to  answer ;  in  fact, 
refused  to  speak,  and  was  therefore  placed  in  solitary 
confinement,  until  it  suited  him  to  be  more  communica- 
tive. Can  the  Dominican  and  the  saccone  who  took  the 
picture  be  one  and  the  same  ?  —  and  has  his  arrest  pre- 
vented him  from  restoring  it  ? 

I  only  ask  you  to  think  this  over  and  try  whether 
you  can  arrive  at  any  solution  of  this  problem.  .  .  . 

Last  week  our  unhappy  friend  escaped  from  the  sur- 
veillance of  his  companion,  and  disappeared  for  several 
days.  We  Avere  most  wretched  about  him,  and  feared 
that  some  misfortune  had  happened  to  him,  when  sud- 
denly he  returned  in  the  same  condition  as  before.  He 
seemed  very  sad  and  much  disappointed,  and,  in  reply  to 
our  questions,  replied  that  he  had  been  to  his  sanctuary 
among  the  tombs,  and  added,  sorrowfully,  that  Polonse 
was  not  there,  and  that  he  had  to  weep  alone. 

He  was  wan  and  dishevelled,  and  greatly  exhausted, 
and  had  evidently  eaten  nothing  during  his  absence. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lorrimer  have  returned  to  England,  and 
now  I  feel  a  greater  responsibility  than  ever.  God 
knows,  I  wish  you  were  here  to  share  it  with  me.  Were 
it  not  for  Madam  Raymond  and  Ang^lique,  I  could 
hardly  endure  my  anxiety :  but  these  noble  women  are 
determined  to  cure  him  with  their  love  and  care.  If  he 
was  the  nearest  of  kin,  they  could  not  feel  a  greater 
affection  for  him.  ... 

Lately  he  has  shown  a  decided  interest  in  our  little 
Dorothea.    He    takes  the  sweet    child  on    his  knee, 


J 


460 


THE  8TOKY   OF   AN    ENTHUSIAST. 


smooths  her  golden  hair,  and  looks  at  her  silently  and 
sorrowfully ;  he  seems  to  have  a  peculiar  attraction  for 
the  child.  She  will  cling  to  him  caressingly,  uiul,  lean- 
ing against  his  shoulder,  gaze  so  earnestly  at  him  that 
one  might  almost  say  the  soul  of  his  dead  love  looked 
through  her  blu«>  eyes. 

Frovi  Paul  Fahrien  to  the  Rev.  Walter  Lorrimer,  Had- 
dingham,  England. 

Keverend  and  Veky  Dear  Friexd  :  —  I  have  noth- 
ing of  importance  to  communicate  to  you  respecting  the 
condition  of  your  cousin.  He  remains  much  the  same 
as  when  you  left  Kome,  with  the  exception  of  greater 
energy  in  his  studio,  where  he  spends  most  of  his  time. 

Occasionally  he  still  disappears  for  a  few  days. 
When  he  returns,  he  is  much  exhausted  and  depressed, 
and  always  makes  the  same  reply,  when  questioned,  that 
he  has  been  to  his  sanctuary  among  the  tombs,  and  adds 
mournfully  that  Polouae  is  not  there.  .  .  . 

I  wish  you  could  see  his  pictures.  They  would  be  an 
interesting  study  for  a  psychologist.  He  has  just  com- 
pleted one,  which  I  considei  truly  remarkable.  It  is  a 
strange,  impressive  study  — a  wide,  sunburned  desert, 
dry  and  desolate,  with  a  solitary  palm,  and  two  pilgrims 
seeking  it,  and  under  its  scanty  shade  clasping  hands  and 
weeping  together. 

There  are  others,  that  are  like  memories  of  the  past, 
faces  that  have  either  the  features  and  expression  of  the 
Raphael  or  the  adorable  eyes  and  tender  smile  of  his 

dead  love.  ... 

It  is  very  sad  and  pitiful  to  think  of  his  bright  and 
beautiful  mind  so  clouded  and  bewildered,  and  his  splen- 
did genius  diverted  from  its  proper  source,  and  lost  to  a 


THUSIAST. 

s  at  lier  silently  and 
sculiar  attraction  for 
iressingly,  and,  lean- 
aruestly  at  him  that 
Ills  dead  love  looked 


liter  Lorrimer,  Had- 
id, 

EXD  :  —  I  have  noth- 
\.o  you  respecting  the 
lains  much  the  same 
exception  of  greater 
lids  most  of  his  time. 
i-s  for  a  few  days, 
usted  and  depressed, 
vhen  questioned,  that 
I  the  tombs,  and  adds 
e.  .  .  . 

.  They  would  be  an 
t.  He  has  just  com- 
remarkable.  It  is  a 
[e,  sunburned  desert, 
lira,  and  two  pilgrims 
de  clasping  hands  and 

iiemories  of  the  past, 
and  expression  of  the 
I  tender  smile  of  his 

nk  of  his  bright  and 
ildered,  and  his  splen- 
i:  source,  and  lost  to  a 


1 


8ANCTUAKY. 

world  that  understood  and  apj)reciated  it.  God  only 
knows  if  he  will  ever  be  restored  to  reason  ;  but  if  he  is, 
it  will  be  through  the  love  and  holy  influence  of  La 
Santa  aud  my  child,  my  sweet,  blue-eyed  Uoretliea. 


CONCLUSION. 

From  Paul  Fahrien  to  M.  Lepeltler,  publisher,  Boulevard 
St.  Germain,  Paris. 

My  Dear  Fuienu:  —  !  can  easily  understand  your 
desire  to  know  something  more  of  the  writer  of  the 
journal  which  I  entrusted  to  you,  together  with  several 
letters,  for  publication  at  some  future  day. 

When  I  gave  you  the  papers,  I  thought  the  sad  his- 
tory of  my  friend  was  near  its  close,  and  that  nothing 
further  could  be  told  to  throw  any  light  on  the  mysteri- 
ous disappearance  of  the  Raphael.     Ten  years  have 
passed  since  then,  and   some  of  the  conditions  have 
eventuated  in  a  way  that  will  add  another  interesting 
chapter  to  what  has  already  been  told,  and  I  do  not 
hesitate  to  confide  this  additional  information  to  you,  as 
I  am  confident  I  can  depend  upon  your  discretion  not  to 
make  any  part  of  this  strange  story  public   property 
until,  as  I  have  previously  stipulated,  he  who  is  most 
intimately  connected  with  it  shall  have  passed  beyond 
the  boundary  of  time,  into  that  country  where,  I  trust, 
he  will  find  the  happiness  denied  to  his  gentle  soul  here 
on  earth. 

I  agree  with  you  that  it  would  be  a  mistake  to  give 
the  story  to  the  world  in  its  present  incompleteness,  and 
your  summing-up  is  quite  correct  when  you  say  that  the 


M 


m 


THK   STORY    OF   AN    ENTHUSIAST. 


end  is  most  unsatisfactory,  that  it  loaves  the  hero  tem- 
l)orarily  insane,  the  Ilaphael  temporarily  lost,  and  the 
unfortunate  Pole  temporarily  iniprisoneu  ;  all  of  which, 
I  grant,  are  most  deplorable  situations.  Yet  such  really 
were  the  conditions  wheii  I  gave  the  manuscript  into 
your  hands. 

I  wish  it  were  in  my  power,  without  doing  serious 
violence  to  truth,  to  tell  you  that  the  past  ten  years 
have  restored  all  the  graces  and  joys  of  existence  to  the 
friend  who  is  dearer  to  me  than  a  brother ;  but,  alas ! 
maturity  does  not  often  compensate  us  for  the  misfor- 
tunes of  youth,  and  such  sorrow  as  his  cannot  be  cured 
by  time.  However,  I  can  give  myself  the  satisfaction  of 
telling  you  that  the  Kaphael  was  found,  and  is  to-day 
hanging  in  the  gallery  of  the  Louvre.  There  was  very 
little  publicity  given  to  its  restoration,  as  we  wished 
to  shield,  as  far  as  possible,  the  name  of  the  unhappy 
Pole  from  disgrace  and  ignominy. 

I  am  sure  you  will  agree  with  me  when  I  say  that  I 
think  this  little  bit  of  the  final  history  of  Polonse  fur- 
nishes an  example  of  friendship  and  devotion  quite  as 
exceptional  as  it  is  noble,  and  serves  to  throw  a  soften- 
ing influence  over  our  judgment  of  him.  Unfortunate 
man !  we  can  only  leave  him  to  the  mercy  of  God,  yet 
we  cannot  fail  to  admire  the  devotion  that  led  him  to 
confess  his  crime,  in  order  that  he  might  communicate 
with  his  friend,  and  reveal  to  him  the  secret  hiding-place 
of  the  wonderful  picture. 

For  more  than  a  year,  he  endured  solitary  confinement 
in  stubborn  silence,  and,  in  all  probability,  never  would 
have  spoken  —  and,  as  there  was  no  direct  evidence 
against  him,  might  have  escaped  the  extreme  penalty  of 
the  law,  but  the  thought  of  that  treasure  lost  forever  to 


;NTHU8IA8T. 

;  leaves  the  hero  tem- 
iporarily  lost,  and  the 
risoiieu  ;  all  of  which, 
tions.  Yet  such  really 
I!  the  mauuscvipt  into 

without  doing  serious 
at  the  past  ten  years 
ays  of  existence  to  the 
t  a  brother ;  but,  alas  ! 
ate  us  for  the  misfor- 
LS  his  cannot  be  cured 
,rself  the  satisfaction  of 
,3  found,  and  is  to-day 
xvre.  There  was  very 
ioration,  as  we  wished 
name  of  the  unhappy 

me  when  I  say  that  I 
listory  of  Polonse  fur- 
and  devotion  quite  as 
ves  to  throw  a  soften- 
of  him.  Unfortunate 
the  mercy  of  God,  yet 
'otion  that  led  him  to 
le  might  communicate 
1  the  secret  hiding-place 

•ed  solitary  confinement 
robability,  never  would 
as  no  direct  evidence 
the  extreme  penalty  of 
treasure  lost  forever  to 


SANCTUAKY. 


468 


the  owner,  unless  he  was  able  to  comnuinicato  its  place 
of  concealment,  so  preyed  upon  him  that  at  last  he  de- 
cided to  sacrifice  his  life  for  the  privilege  of  a  private 
interview  with  his  friend.  For  reasons  that  you  will 
understand,  I  was  the  one  who  saw  him  in  prison,  and 
received  his  last  instructions,  and  I  found  the  picture,  as 
he  indicated,  concealed  beyond  all  chance  of  discovery, 
among  the  ruins  of  the  tomb  where  he  had  taken  sanctu- 
ary. 

After  its  recovery,  the  Kaphael  was  quietly  sent  to 
France,  without  the  knowledge  of  my  poor  friend,  who 
was  then  in  no  condition  to  be  consulted  upon  any  sub- 
ject of  importance,  and  it  was  not  until  several  years 
after,  when  he  had  recovered  his  health,  and  to  some 
extent  his  mental  poise,  that  he  was  told  of  that  singu- 
lar episode  in  the  history  of  the  picture. 

Perhaps  the  best  way  to  give  you  a  correct  impression 
of  my  friend's  present  condition  is  by  describing  a  little 
incident  that  occurred  yesterday  in  one  of  the  galleries 
of  the  Louvre. 

I  was  sitting  before  the  head  with  the  black  berretta ; 
fascinated,  as  I  always  am,  by  its  singular  power,  and 
never  weary  of  studying  it  in  our  frequent  visits  to 
Paris,  when  a  remark  in  a  clear  childish  voice  fell  on  my 
ear :  "  I  am  jealous  of  the  Raphael.  I  think  you  love  it 
better  than  you  love  me." 

The  speaker  was  my  daughter  Dorethea,  who  is  now  a 
golden-haired  girl  of  ten,  with  a  face  of  angelic  sweet- 
ness, and  eyes  of  that  deep  blue  that  one  sees  oftener 
\mder  cloudy  English  skies  than  elsewhere.  She  was 
clinging  to  the  hand  of  a  tall,  slender  man,  not  yet  forty, 
although  his  hair  is  touched  with  the  frost  of  age,  and 
his  dark  eyes  have  the  mournful  intensity  of  one  who 


^i 


A 


464 


THK   STOUY   OF  AN   ENTHUSIAST. 


has  looked  long  at  sorrow.  He  was  standinp;  before  the 
Raphael,  his  pale,  earnest  face  fixed  and  stern,  his  sad 
soul  looking  through  liis  beautiful  eyts  away  beyond 
the  scenes  around  him.  God  only  knows  of  what  he 
was  thinking,  or  whitlier  his  spirit  had  wandered,  for  he 
was  deaf  to  the  ])leading  voice  at  his  side,  whose  music 
always  reaches  his  heart,  even  in  his  most  absent  moods, 
and  whoso  tender  little  hand  draws  him  wherever  she 
wishes. 

"Come,"  she  urged.  "You  have  looked  so  long  at 
this  picture  that  I  am  tired ;  come,"  with  gentle  insis- 
tence, "  and  show  me  some  others." 

At  length  the  persistent  little  voice  penetrated  the 
mysterious  silence  that  enfolded  him,  and  his  gaze  turned 
dreamily  upon  the  lovely  child.  But  no  smile  lit  the 
sombre  gravity  of  his  face  ;  oidy  a  look  of  ineffable  ten- 
derness and  gentleness  met  the  blue  eyes  turned  anx- 
iously upon  him. 

"  Come,"  she  repeated,  with  patient  sweetness.  "  You 
must  go  now." 

With  a  long-drawn  sigh,  like  one  in  pain,  he  suffered 
her  to  lead  him  away  to  another  part  of  the  room,  where 
she  ti  ied  to  divert  his  mind  frcm  its  preoccupation  by 
all  sorts  of  innocent  devices. 

I  sat  silently  watching  them.  She  seems  more  his 
child  than  mine.  If  (Jod  had  not  given  me  other  chil- 
dren, I  should  suffer  to  have  this  one,  my  first-born,  love 
my  friend  better  than  she  loves  me  ;  but,  as  it  is,  I  am 
reconciled  to  see  her  a  part  of  his  life.  It  is  pitiful,  it 
is  pathetic,  to  see  that  great  soul  cling  to  the  child  as 
though  she  were  his  only  salvation.  And  his  power  of 
winning  love  and  sympathy  is  truly  remarkable;  no  one 
can  come  in  contact  with  him  that  the  teuderest  and 


L. 


CNTHUHIAHT. 

ras  stancUnp;  before  the 
xed  and  stern,  liis  sad 
ful  eyts  away  beyond 
ily  knows  of  what  he 
it  had  wandered,  for  he 
liis  side,  whose  music 
his  most  absent  moods, 
iws  him  wherever  she 

lave  looked  so  long  at 
me,"  with  gentle  iusis- 
i." 

e  voice  penetrated  the 
nim,  and  his  gaze  turned 
But  no  smile  lit  the 
a  look  of  ineffable  ten- 
blue  eyes  turned  anx- 

tient  sweetness.    "  You 

»ne  in  pain,  he  suffered 
part  of  the  room,  where 
n  its  preoccupation  by 

She  seems  more  his 
)t  given  me  other  chil- 
;  one,  my  first-born,  love 
me ;  but,  as  it  is,  I  am 
is  life.  It  is  pitiful,  it 
1  cling  to  the  child  as 
on.  And  his  power  of 
uly  remarkable ;  no  one 
that  the  teuderest  and 


SANOTtTAUY. 


165 


best  part  of  his  nature  does  not  go  out  to  him.  He  is 
one  of  us.  My  wife,  my  ehildren,  and  tiiat  noble 
woman  La  Santa,  are  all  devoted  to  him,  and,  as  I  pre- 
dicted long  ago,  through  their  love,  he  has  been  saved 
and  his  wonderful  genius  restored  to  a  world  that  de- 
lights in  it. 

While  I  was  watching  my  child's  sweet  efforts  to  in- 
terest her  companion,  a  friend  approached  and  exclaimed 
in  a  voice  of  repressed  eagerness,  "Is  not  that  Mark- 
land,  the  apostle  of  the  new  school  ?  " 

The  speaker  was  Dupre,  the  leader,  as  you  know,  of 
the  realistics. 

« That  is  Markland,"  I  replied.  "  But  why  do  you 
call  him  the  apostle  of  the  new  school  ?  " 

"  What !  do  not  you  know  that  he  is  the  first  of  the 
impressionists,  and  that  his  peculiar  and  mystical  style 
has  numerous  imitators.  In  fact,  he  is  the  fashion.  The 
realists  have  had  their  day,  and  now  the  impressionists 
take  the  lead." 

« Indeed !  Is  it  possible  ?  I  had  no  idea  that  my 
friend's  dreamy,  fitful  bursts  of  genius,  wonderful  as 
they  are,  had  caused  such  a  revolution  in  art." 

"It  is  true,  nevertheless.  His  last  picture  in  the 
Salon  was  one  of  the  most  reniarkable  Avorks  of  the  age. 
It  almost  converted  me  into  a  follower,  and,  now  that  I 
have  seen  him,  I  can  understand  why  he  paints  such 
mystical  things.  He  looks  as  though  he  lived  in  botii 
worlds  at  the  same  time." 

"  He  does,"  I  rejoined,  gravely.     "  His  soul  is  often 

absent  on  long  journeys  into  a  celestial  country,  from 

whence  he  returns,  like  St.  John  the  Divine,  to  give  to 

the  world  the  revelations  that  are  made  to  him  there." 

"What  a  wonderful  character,"  said  Dupr^,  following 


466 


THK   8TOUY   OF   AN    KNTIIirsiAST. 


my  friend  and  his  little  golden-haired  attendant  with 
eager,  curious  eyes.  "Thoy  say  all  sorts  of  strange 
things  about  him  here  in  I'aris.  la  it  true  that  he  is 
insane  at  times,  and  that  he  paints  liis  best  pictures 
when  he  is  in  a  state  of  mental  aberration  ?  And  does 
lie  live  alone  in  a  mined  tomb  in  the  Campagna  ?  " 

"  Most  of  what  you  hear  is  nonsense,"  I  replied,  im- 
patiently. "He  lives  in  my  family;  he  is  one  of  us, 
and  his  life  is  calm  find  rational,  and  in  no  way  differ- 
ent from  ours.  He  is  devoted  to  my  little  daughter,  who 
is  always  with  him,  and  his  manner  of  working  is  not 
remarkably  erratic  or  irregular.  It  is  true,  he  loves 
long  solitary  walks,  and  is  occasionally  absent  on  excur- 
sions to  the  country.  Bfit  he  cannot  leave  my  Dorothea 
long ;  he  is  happier  with  her  than  with  any  one  else." 

"  Then,  you  really  do  not  think  he  is  insane  at  times  ?  " 

"  Not  unless  you  call  genius  insanity,  and  consider  an 
exceptional  nature  an  abnormal  one." 

"  Well,  whether  he  is  insane  or  not,  the  world  con- 
siders him  the  greatest  genius  of  his  time,  and  I  agree 
with  the  world,"  said  Dupr6,  as  he  left  me.  ... 

I  sincerely  hope  it  may  be  many  years  before  the 
time  comes  to  publish  these  pages  ;  but,  when  that  event 
occurs,  you  can  use  your  own  judgment  in  regard  to  this 
chapter,  to  add  it  to  the  others,  or  leave  it  out,  as  you 
may  think  best. 


K 


-^o-^iiyg/ 


•mm  III      niiiii.li  im  itfi^immm 


KNTirirsiAST. 

n-haii'ed  attondant  witli 
^y  all  sorts  of  straugo 
Is  it  truo  that  he  is 
paints  liis  best  jjietures 
aberration  ?  And  does 
1  the  Cainpagna  ?  "  - 
vonsense,"  I  replied,  im- 
niily  ;  lie  is  one  of  us, 
,1,  and  in  no  way  differ- 
0  my  little  daughter,  who 
nner  of  working  is  not 
r.  It  is  true,  he  loves 
lionally  absent  on  excur- 
iiinot  leave  my  Dorethea 
in  with  any  one  else." 
t  he  is  insane  at  times  ?  " 
iisanity,  and  consider  an 
one." 

>  or  not,  the  world  con- 
jf  his  time,  and  I  agree 
he  left  me.  ... 
many  years  before  the 
es  ;  but,  when  that  event 
dgment  in  regard  to  this 
,  or  leave  it  out,  as  you 


_„  i'iii»'*'i 


fii^-S/r ' 


X 


